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I guess I did it to myself. In my public persona, I am open about my penchant for a jolly cocktail. I watch Mixology Masters on Netflix and read fancy cocktail recipes online. I also like to order drinks I’ve seen in old movies, or, when visiting my friend, Joni, enjoy the perfect martini.
But, mostly, I’m a hot tea drinker. And hot tea, while reverent, is not as flamboyant to talk about as alcohol.
I hold to two strict rules concerning spirits. One, I never drink alone and, two, I drink only one cocktail when out socializing. I already drive like a grandma – vigilant but pokey – and can’t risk adding alcohol impairment to my hyper-sensitivities.
I bought an industrialized bottle of vodka from the ABC store in Murphy when I first moved here to start my solitary life. I figured it would be nice to have on hand when my friends started spilling into my little house. Nearly two years later, it’s only six shots down, which tells you as much about the state of my liver as the state of my social life.
I’m called a “sipper” by my gentler friends and a “lightweight” by the more judgmental. I’m a drinking dud. I post pictures of pretty cocktails that I leave on the bars, nearly full.
In short, I’m a fraud.
Some who don’t know me gather clues from my posts and columns and surmise, after adding a hearty dose of hyperbole, that I am an alcoholic. Maybe they watched me buy the giant vodka bottle that day. But this false perception made me examine areas in my life where I jump to conclusions based on bread crumbs that turn out not to be bread at all, but chocolate cake or macaroni and cheese.
Back in grad school, I learned that perception can be seen as reality. I see a woman in the Ingles, for example, and because I’m nosy, I’ll evaluate the state of her life by the contents of her shopping car.
“Oh, I see she bought a jumbo pack of Kleenex,” I’ll say to myself. Someone in her household must be sick.
But this perception is only my reality, and it’s a tenuous one. She could be in charge of stocking her office’s supply cupboard; maybe she’s supplying her underground bunker. The fact that she’s got instant coffee and Styrofoam cups doesn’t mean she’s holding a human captive in her basement.
When a person cuts me off in traffic, my first thought is a judgment. “What a selfish so and so,” I might say. But, once the pinch of their action subsides, I realize their indiscretion could mean any number of realities.
“Maybe she’s in labor,” I consider. Or “Hospice just called and he’s rushing to say goodbye.” When I shift my perception, my reality shifts with it. Suddenly, I’m rooting for the person. “Go in peace,” I’ll say and mean it.
Reality, I’ve learned in this fickle world, is a shape-shifter. What we post on socials is one blinking second of a larger and more complex reality. And when someone chooses to curate those seconds, like I do with the alcohol, I’m creating a false reality. And we’re all doing it.
The captured smile of the college graduate or the anniversary pictures that hang on Facebook’s hallway – I call them “hollow-ways” – do not capture the reality sandwiched on either side of that snapshot. The gritty stuff, the un-pleasantries of foul moods and cruel actions, those remain hidden.
And, for the most part, that’s a good thing. Nobody wants to look at the underbelly of our relationships. It’s nasty down there, complicated and likely stinking with decay from neglect and oozing from selfishness.
But I think sometimes we forget that the shiny, smiling faces represent only six shots down of the entire bottle. It’s not a full picture. It’s a manufactured reality. It is a constructed perception, with too many blanks to fill in with accuracy.
I’m practicing grace in my life. I’m working to tell myself stories about other people that put them in a positive light and that make me want to be on their team. It’s been liberating.
I’ve found that it’s just as easy to build a perception around giving somebody an “attaboy” as it is to call her an alcoholic, for example. In the end, I suppose, it’s really none of my business anyway.
Abigail Blythe Batton is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her column runs every other week. Email her at ablythebatton@gmail.com or leave a message at 837-5122.