Dry January? That's Cute. And Completely Pointless.
No, bro, I don't want any hop water
Well, it’s January. And in addition to being the start of a new year, it’s also the month when your friends who regularly take shots of liquors that could also power nuclear submarines start drinking peach-flavored La Croix. In public.
They call it “Dry January,” an annual tradition where people give up alcohol for a month so their livers can recover, read a couple of books, take up carpentry, and do whatever it is livers do when they go on vacation.
A Brief and Semi-Accurate History of Dry January
Dry January got its start in England a few years ago when a local woman, lets’ call her Barb, thought, “What can I do to make an entire month of 4pm sunsets and overcast weather even less enjoyable?” And now, we get four solid weekends of “mocktail drink specials” where bars charge $14 for a glass of tap water with a muddled avocado. Thanks, Barb.
Actually, Barb was training for that loftiest of fitness goals for people who drive to closer parking spaces – a half marathon. And in that case, giving up booze for a month is probably not a bad idea. Ok, technically, giving up booze for a month is never a bad idea, unless you happen to be the Secretary of Defense. But thinking that 31 days without a beer is going to change your life is kind of like thinking you can offset a 14-layer Pizza-Rito by ordering a side of cabbage.
This is why my interactions with Dry January people generally go something like this:
Friend on January 1: I’m doing Dry January, you wanna try some hop water?
Me: I’d rather lick a canal. So you’re giving up drinking?
Friend: Only for January.
Me: Just January? Then what?
Friend: I’m getting so blackout they ban me from most National Parks
Then, they run off to the bathroom and develop what I can only assume is an immediate allergy to hop water, since they come back sniffling like a third grader who doesn’t want to go to school.
What’s worse, when I order a Michelob Ultra, they give me a judgmental look usually reserved for people who kick puppies or root for the Jets.
Look, four weeks of sobriety doesn’t give you the moral high ground, especially if it’s done with a wink as “South Florida Sober.” Even then, real change is slow and incremental, so giving up booze for a month doesn’t really accomplish much other than reaffirming that, yes, hop water is terrible.
I get it, this is Miami, where “healthy” means mixing your vodka with organic green juice instead of Gatorade. And any effort a person can make to cut something toxic out of their diet, even temporarily, should probably be commended. But it all seems a little performative when, by spring, everyone you know who did Dry January is on a six-week bender that starts by sampling The Rock’s new craft Absinthe and ends hurling obscenities at a poor Miami Open ball boy.
Yet somehow, it never leads to “Dry April.”