Is it still drinking too much if you’re having a good time?

Well, here we are. Sixty and still sipping. Or gulping. Depends on the night.

I’ve always liked a drink. Not in that furtive, paper-bag-on-the-park-bench way. I mean in the bright, chatty, pour-another-one sort of way. Wine with friends. A gin while cooking. Champagne at lunch. Baileys on ice, curled up on the couch watching The Crown and pretending I’m more Queen Mum than Camilla.

But lately, I’ve started wondering. When did this become… a bit much?

Last Tuesday I fell off a bar stool in my own kitchen. Just tipped over sideways like a sack of potatoes. I wasn’t hurt (thanks to the plush linoleum and years of yoga), but it rattled me. And my daughter, who had just popped in to borrow my food processor, looked at me like I was a 14-year-old doing vodka shots behind the school canteen.

“Mum,” she said. “Maybe it’s time to… cut back?”

I laughed it off, of course. “Darling, it’s just the chair – I told you it’s wobbly.”
It wasn’t.

How do I see myself?

Still fun. Still interesting. Still the kind of woman who can hold a room and pass a decent opinion on almost anything from world politics to who Harry should’ve married. (Spoiler: not Meghan.)

But I know what I look like to others, sometimes. Especially late at night. The slurred words. The laughing that goes on a beat too long. The lipstick slightly smudged. I used to think it was part of my charm. But now I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve crossed from fun aunt to that woman.

And what does that even mean — that woman?

She’s the one who orders a third bottle when everyone else has had enough. She’s the one who stays too long at the barbecue, still nursing her glass while the host is stacking chairs. She’s the one people gently nudge each other about – “Is she okay?” They mean well. I suppose.

How do Other Women see me?

It depends on the woman.

Some, bless them, are right there with me – glass in hand, laughing too loud, ready to share a taxi at midnight and raid the fridge at 2am. These women are my tribe. They know life is messy and short and sometimes the best way to get through it is with a Merlot in one hand and a story in the other.

Others watch me warily. The ones who’ve given it up, or never really started. They sip soda water and offer gentle advice I don’t really want to hear. They think I’m numbing something — maybe I am. They think I should join them at yoga and green smoothies. Maybe I should.

And then there are the quiet ones – the ones who say nothing but exchange glances when I order another round. They mean well too, I suppose. But it stings.

And the Men?

Ah, the men. This is the bit no one wants to talk about after sixty. That yes, we do still want love, romance, even – dare I say it – sex. But it gets tricky when you’re the woman who drinks a bit too much.

They’ll flirt with you. They’ll sit next to you at dinners because you’re fun and flirty and still throw your head back when you laugh. But long-term partner material? That’s another matter.

Men our age are suddenly quite wholesome, aren’t they? Taking vitamins. Walking the dog at sunrise. Caring about their blood pressure. They’re not looking for a woman who’s a bit of a liability by dessert. They’re looking for stability. Companionship. Someone to get up early with and walk on the beach before coffee. I don’t even like the beach before coffee.

So yes, they like me. But from a distance. The way you like fireworks – exciting, a bit loud, probably not something you want in the lounge room every night.

Are there signs you’re drinking too much?

Yes, darling. There are.

You forget conversations from the night before.

You’ve stopped counting how many drinks you’ve had – or you joke about how much you’re drinking, a bit too often.

You plan your social life around when you can have a drink.

You hide it – or pretend you’re not really drinking (“It’s just one glass” when it’s clearly three).

People start dropping hints. Or giving you the look.

And here’s the kicker: if you’re asking the question, you probably already know the answer.

But here’s the other side of it – does it matter?

It depends. Are you happy? Are you healthy? Are you hurting anyone, including yourself?

For me, the line is getting blurry. My mornings are foggier. I’m not as sharp as I used to be. And frankly, I’m tired of feeling like a teenager sneaking vodka into the orange juice when guests come over.

Is it different for Men?

Oh yes.

Men who drink too much are often seen as troubled, complex, in need of support. Think Hemingway. Bukowski. Even your boozy uncle – everyone clucks around them, tells stories, makes allowances.

But women who drink too much? We’re messes. We’re warnings. We’re tragic. We’re embarrassing.

The world is much harder on older women who slip. And let me tell you – sometimes we slip literally off a chair.

So, What Now?

I don’t have all the answers. I’m not giving up entirely – let’s not get hysterical. But I’m thinking more about it. I’m pouring one less. I’m noticing when the urge to drink is about quieting something, not celebrating something.

I want to be present. For my grandchildren. For my friends. For myself.

And maybe – just maybe – I want to find someone who does want to walk the beach before coffee. Or at least sit with me while we drink it.

But first, I’ve got to be steady enough on my feet to get there.

What about you? Are you rethinking your relationship with the bottle in your 60s? Write to me at [email protected] and let’s talk about it – glass of soda in hand.

Cheers (sort of),
Kim