A Thousand Wasted Sundays

by Victoria Vanstone

I couldn’t imagine our relationship would thrive. Having long, meaningful chats over cups of Earl Grey was about as appealing as inhaling a stranger’s fart. A decade and a half later, she was still going strong. I witnessed her iron will at many family gatherings. She danced and laughed along with the rest of us, without seeming to have a twinge of jealousy or doubt. At the end of a night out on the town, as I was dumped in a taxi home, she ambled up the street with a big smile on her face and a glittery shawl wrapped around her shoulders. How does she do it? I thought. Maybe being sober is better than being drunk? It was definitely better than being put in a taxi with a plastic Coles bag to puke in. I had come to quietly admire my sister and recognise her power. Her abstinence gave her a kind of supremacy, an understated superiority. She was still doing what we were all doing, partying, but she did it without a sip of booze. Being able to socialise and not get a hangover afterwards looked utterly magical.