Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget - Sarah Hepola

I pulled my profile down the next day.
This story was one of a thousand reminders that dating was never easier when I was drinking.
Alcohol may have turned me into Cinderella for a few radiant hours, but I would wake up in dishrags
again, crying about the messes I’d made.
This time, the process of finding the right person on the site was more honest, but it was also slow.
A lot of dead-end conversations. A lot of dudes in camo posing in front of their giant trucks. I was
growing antsy. Some days I thought about finding a random dude and just banging him.
What was wrong with me? Why did I think sex was something I needed to get over with?
MY FIRST ONLINE date was with a divorced father who was an immigration lawyer. He was nice, but
not for me. No chemistry. When he offered to make me a lavish meal on Valentine’s for our third date,
I knew the only proper response was to gently fold up the tent on our time together. He deserved to
spend that holiday with someone who felt differently about him. I was starting to learn one of the most
important lessons of online dating: the wisdom of saying no.
All my life I fought to say yes. I was shy and ambitious, a terrible mix, and so I tried to dismantle
my isolationist tendencies. Yes to this party I don’t want to go to, yes to this person I don’t want to
date, yes to this assignment I’m afraid to botch, because saying yes was the path to a remarkable life. I
needed to say yes, because I needed to push myself off the couch and into the swift-moving stream of
hurt and jubilation. But saying yes to everything meant repeatedly saying no to my own better
judgment, or drinking myself to the point I had none. Now my job was to sort out the possibilities
with more caution: which risks are not worth it, and which ones deserve a jump.
I said no to the smart guy who wasn’t attractive to me. I said no to the cocky guy who was. I said
no to the graphic designer who tried to kiss me one night. Our date was fun. I ran the pool table
(twice), and his eyes roamed along my ass as I lined up my shot, and I was surprised to find I liked
that. But he slurped down three bourbons in 90 minutes, and when he leaned forward to kiss me, I
was grossed out by the sour smell of his breath, the slump of his eyes, and I ducked. Like in a sitcom,
I literally ducked.
It was a revelation to me how unappealing men were when they were drunk. Back when I was
dating my college boyfriend Patrick, who was sober, he would pull away from me when I was buzzed
and handsy. “You smell like a brewery,” he’d say, and I didn’t get it. I felt so sexy in those moments;
it only followed I must have looked that way. Now I realized what a sadistic game drinking played. It
built up your confidence at the very moment you were looking your worst.
After the comical way I ducked the graphic designer’s kiss, I was certain I’d never hear from him
again. But he texted me the next day. Turns out, I accidentally inflamed his desire. I went out with him
again, but something crucial was lacking. “I don’t think this is going to work,” I told him, which was a
phrase I was learning to say. It felt foreign on my tongue.
“I have never broken up with anyone in my life,” I used to tell people, as though it marked me as
kind, as though it granted me broken-heart status. In truth, it was evidence of my passiveness and my
need. I had never ended a relationship, but that was another way of saying I’d never found the
courage. I’d let someone else do the dirty work. The dating site was good practice for me. Wind
sprints in proper boundary setting.
I went out with a guy named Ben. He showed up in jeans and a ’70s ringer shirt pocked with holes