I do not think I’m an alcoholic. I do, however, feel like I’ve racked myself up some pretty reliable points for drinking frequently, and usually for free, in New York City.

I’m in a band. And all of my friends are in bands. You know what that means? It means shows…which means drinks. And my friends who aren‘t musicians, who work in offices, tend to like to buy me rounds at Happy Hour time–which usually precedes one of those aforementioned shows.

These factors combined with my sometimes modeling and myopenbar.com lead to a steady intake of alcohol on my part. And REALLY, I am okay with this.

However, I woke up today feeling especially hung over. My stomach felt like I imagine it would if it were working diligently to digest batteries. My makeup was caked across my pillowcase and the volume of god knows what kind of dirt under my nails made me afraid to look in the mirror. It was just another, typical night out on the town for me last night. Wine and beer and whiskey and martinis. Lost cash. Expensive cab rides. Shameful drunk snacking back at my apartment and finally the relief of passing out, but ONLY after an embarrassing drunk dial and even more embarrassing emotional drunk IM.

I woke up this morning and I challenged myself out loud to my roommate.

“You know what, dude? I’m gonna take the next week off from drinking.”

She laughed.

“No, seriously, if I can’t f*&cking go ONE WEEK without alcohol, then I’m going to check myself into rehab.”

And suddenly, she realized that the same would be true for her too if she could not tame her recklessness for just one week.

We made a pact; a deal with the devil’s advocate if you will, and we have set out to prove that we haven’t all but dismissed the self-control we once had.

Although I didn’t physically WANT beer all day; the simple fact that I wasn’t “allowed” to have it DID, in fact, lead me to a creepy, lingering position over my refrigerator door more than once today…I hung over the door, passing glances over to the Stella on the bottom shelf while trying to convince myself that I had just opened the refrigerator for grapes. Or hummus. Or ANYthing but alcohol.

My plans tonight, which I canceled, would have been fun and I would have followed through with them had it not been for my overflow of work. However, the thought DID occur to me that it wouldn’t be as much fun to go out tonight if I couldn’t drink.

As the evening persisted, I discussed the coming weekend plans with my friends…slowly explaining to each friend that I WOULD be out this weekend; but I wouldn’t be drinking. Between chuckles and winks on AIM, all of my friends bid me farewell and decorated my confidence with their sarcastic “Good Luck!!!!“s.

It will only be a week. Seven days. 168 hours before I can drink again. This shouldn’t have to be anything tragic. But regardless, I will be detailing my detox days to you. And while I’m at it, I think I might take a close look at how much money I saved this week. And hell, maybe I’ll check out whether or not I drop a pound or two–I’m confident I consume thousands of calories in drinks normally…

Deem me an alcoholic if you wish, but for all intensive purposes, THIS week shall be the final judgment in that.