Becoming “That guy”..and maybe being okay with it.

by Renny Madlena

I used to love drinking.

And I was good at it. Not like "call rehab" good, but the kind of good where I knew my grapes, poured like a (semi) pro, and could pair a glass of Veuve with leftover chicken and still make it feel like a celebration. I wasn’t a drunk. I was a vibe. At least thats what I told myself when I’d be cooking and sipping all alone in my kitchen on a Tuesday night.. The kind of guy people trusted to pick the wine and tell the story behind the label.

It was ritual. An identity. A signature move. The cork pop was my starting bell. Cooking without a drink in hand? Pfff..Unheard of. Wine wasn’t just something I drank, it was the soundtrack to my evenings, the exhale to my day.

And then, last year, I did something crazy. Well, crazy for me. I stopped.

Thirty-three days without a drop. No real reason other than curiosity and a nagging voice in the back of my mind whispering, "Hey... can you actually NOT drink?"

The first week? Rough. My wine glass felt betrayed. I’d see it sitting by its lonely self across the kitchen, empty, looking at me as if I turned my back on my best friend when he needed me most. My dinners felt... less French and more “what’s in that tupperware in the back of the fridge?”

But then something happened.

I started waking up with this weird sensation. What’s the word? Rested? Yeah, that one. My eyes looked clear. My skin wasn’t doing that puffy thing. My brain wasn’t playing catch-up all morning. I was sleeping like a goddamn Jedi. Focus? On point. Motivation? Up. Self-esteem? If I’m being honest, Borderline smug.

It got to the point where I’d walk past a mirror, nod at myself, and think, “THAT guy’s got his sh*t together."

And okay, fine, there was a bit of superiority. Like, “Look who’s taking care of himself while everyone else is out there nightcapping their potential."

Then last night happened.

Dinner out. Fancy setting. Great company. I thought, "It’s been 11 days. One or two glasses won’t hurt."

Spoiler: They hurt.

Three glasses in and I already knew I’d just handed over tomorrow’s clarity for tonight’s buzz. It wasn’t even a surprise. It was a transaction. A signed deal with a hangover devil wearing a nice suit.

I woke up foggy. Groggy. Annoyed. Not hungover per se, just… disappointed. Like I betrayed that sharp, bright-eyed version of myself for a fleeting moment of "meh."

So now I’m sitting in it.

Wondering.

Have I become that guy? The one who doesn’t drink? The guy I used to side-eye at parties and think, "Ugh, probably has a gratitude journal somewhere” and then I’d roll my eyes so hard they’d cramp up.

Maybe. Maybe not.

But I’m starting to think I don’t miss the wine. I miss the idea of the guy who drank it. The version of me who made it part of his charm.

But that version of me also didn’t sleep great, didn’t feel clear, and definitely didn’t have this much peace.

So maybe I’m not losing anything. Maybe I’m gaining the guy who wakes up feeling better about himself.

Or maybe not. Maybe I’m just having a moment and felt like writing it all down.

Without a glass of wine in hand.