A friend of mine in recovery recently said that we alcoholics should be given a medal for surviving wedding receptions with our sobriety intact. I absolutely agree with her. Nothing gets under my skin as much as the pomp and circumstance of a wedding reception—and this is completely different than how I viewed them not all that long ago. For someone like me, they’re less celebrations than alcoholic calls to action.
My wedding reception game used to be crazy strong. I knew the art of how to pinball between multiple bars without getting weird looks from the bartender for returning mere minutes later, not to mention having someone else order you a drink when there’s just one bar. I had all the angles figured out.
Now, weddings are capable of bringing me all the panic and anxiety I had at social events when I was in very early sobriety. I’m not exaggerating. Amazingly, I don’t have a lot of triggers as a recovering alcoholic. I can walk down grocery-store wine aisles and survive bachelor parties just fine, but put me in a reception hall with white tablecloths, a DJ and a dance floor and I’m a goddamned mess. The first time I went to a reception sober, I lasted maybe five minutes at our table before I had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom and breathe. There’s something about receptions that I lock into—too many good memories, maybe, soaked with free gin and tonics. (Play the “Electric Slide” and the spell is broken.) It’s hard being the guy who used to get smashed at receptions because, well, that’s what I thought you were supposed to do.
When my friend Shawn announced he was getting married, I was thrilled. We’d known each other since third grade and he’d never seemed happier—full of live-wire energy, excitement and not an ounce of nervousness. He was all-in. Then, he asked me to be his Best Man. Again, I was thrilled. Honored. All that jazz. Then it dawned on me: I’m going to have to give a speech. In front of people. At a wedding reception. And not just a speech: a goddamn toast. I could already feel the reception closing in on me like a Venus Fly Trap, slowly swallowing me whole.
I suddenly wasn’t looking forward to the reception anymore so much as I was wondering how I could fuck it all up for Shawn. I weighed the option of using a glass of real champagne, then I stupidly thought: “What if I forget it’s real champagne and drink it on accident?” Then, I worried for weeks about whether the bartender could hook me up with a stunt glass filled with grape juice. I even Googled “Is it bad luck to give a toast with water?” (Spoiler alert: it is!) I let my alcoholic brain cycle down from its typical high RPM and thought it through. I’d just use an empty glass and be done with it. End of story. It wasn’t going to be that big of a wedding, anyway. It was going to be in our hometown village’s town hall: modest, quaint, reserved.
And that’s when Shawn told me there was a slight change in venue. He was now getting married at the Cleveland Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. That’s right: this monstrosity. A seven-level, 55,000-square foot museum that was not only a collection of music legends, it was now housing 200 guests—all staring at me while I tried not to ruin Shawn’s special night. The older I get, the more I hate public speaking. I can give presentations at work, no problem, but sharing heartfelt words? Sober? No way. I’m not the first person in the history of the world to say they hate getting up in front of people and saying some words, but it gives me the same nausea as thinking about what an astronaut must feel like seconds before launch, realizing they’re strapped to a rocket and about to hurtle into the atmosphere.
Drinking was my crutch through that stuff. One time, I was asked to give a quick speech for my sister’s engagement party and I remember thinking how clever and funny I felt. I’d gone completely off-script, beer and vodka flushing me with confidence. I later saw the speech on video and was blown away by how terrible it was. I was a sweaty mess, staggering a little and putting way too many spaces between my sentences. Without drinking, though, I wasn’t sure how I’d dull my senses to the fact that hundreds of sets of eyes would be on me. I enjoy attention like the next person, but not that kind of blue-flame intensity. So, I freaked out all over again, just like a good recovering alcoholic does.
The nights leading up to that reception, I worked on several different drafts of my speech but I didn’t prepare for it. I couldn’t practice because it made the experience real. I know that practicing in private ensures you won’t fail in public, but I didn’t care. So long as it was well-written, I didn’t care how it was delivered. When we arrived at the Rock Hall and I saw the layout of the place—the epic openness of it, the countless tables, the giant stage—I almost threw up. I went to the bathroom and gripped both sides of the sink. As the night wore on and it got closer to my speech, I could feel my heart beating at my temples. But when I stood on the stage with Shawn and Tara sitting there, I just went after it—all exposed nerves, raw. I’m pretty sure I looked like a clenched fist up there. If you can have a full-body cringe, that’d be me giving that toast. I got through it, though, unsmiling even when I told jokes, and held up an empty glass (bad luck be damned!) to the bride and my friend since third grade.
As I sat back down, I remembered how Shawn had been texting me the morning I went to rehab, assuring me over and over again that I’d come out on the other side of it a better person. He was right, but I had no idea how he’d also be talking about the night of his reception. I may not win any awards for that speech and I’m not exactly going to go down in the annals of the Rock Hall, but I was sober for it. I wasn’t just clear-headed. That night, I was present for Shawn in all the same ways I was part of ushering in his future.
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