Savoring Sobriety
From Vegas Vows and Divorce to Starting Fresh in San Francisco
Little White Chapel (photo by Jemimah Gray)
Yesterday was my seven-year wedding anniversary, and I completely forgot—pretty wild considering I just finalized the long-overdue divorce days ago. Life moves on even when you’re still catching your breath. In early sobriety or the midst of grief, sometimes the best you can hope for is that time starts to blur again. That simply existing won’t feel like such a monumental task.
Trading Addiction for a Simple Life
I was walking my Morkie to the beach to meet my partner, who was trying to catch his first wave of San Francisco’s “Second Summer”—the warm stretch of fall that hits just as the rest of the country settles into colder weather. The day was uneventful, in the best way: sunny, mellow, predictable. Just like yesterday. Just like the day before.
Not long ago, I chased adrenaline, chaos, and bad decisions (with pickleback shots as my co-pilot). Anything for escapism in the form of alcoholism. But when the comedowns became unbearable, I started fantasizing about something different. Something simple. Something wholesome, like the sitcoms I binged while hungover.
Over the last few years, I finally saw the appeal of a life like Modern Family—and less like Rock of Love starring Bret Michaels.
The Beauty of an Ordinary, Sober Life
Addiction convinced me that “normal” was out of reach. That I’d never find joy in the ordinary, even if it somehow became available to someone like me.
But then, sitting on a familiar sand dune, pleading with my dog for the hundredth time to quit eating washed-up crab carcasses, it hit me:
I made it.
Not in a rags-to-riches way. But in the "I'm just a boring human doing boring stuff" kind of way.
And somehow, that revelation felt like stumbling upon buried treasure. Even in San Francisco.
Baker Beach, San Francisco
Seven Years Earlier: A Boozy Vegas Wedding
My eyes burned as I squinted at the fuzzy red numbers on the clock: 7:52 a.m. I had eight minutes to figure out what day it was, why I felt like roadkill, and how to survive it. Survive it—an interesting turn of phrase for your wedding day.
It’s not that I didn’t want to get married, but after six days of heavy drinking, my body and spirit weren’t exactly prepped for a Vegas elopement.
I’d planned to stop drinking yesterday, but my whiskey-fueled hangover was so brutal that I went straight for hair-of-the-dog. And before I knew it, I’d devoured the whole damn dog. So, packing a suitcase? Shopping for a last-minute wedding dress? Catching a flight? Ha! Oh shit, I still didn’t have a wedding dress. I figured I’d pick one up on the way to the airport like I was grabbing a caramel macchiato.
Drunk Wedding Prep in Las Vegas
After a bender like that, no amount of coffee, greasy diner food, or cold showers was getting me out the door on time. My only solution? More booze. With ten hours to manage this impossible balancing act, I poured half a coffee mug with whiskey (probably Kentucky Deluxe—no way I was drinking Jack Daniels on this budget).
The first shot went down like gasoline. I hugged the porcelain throne. Round two? Success. Progress.
Then, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
What the hell happened to my face?
A gnarly black eye stared back at me. Not exactly the bridal glow I was hoping for. Mystery bruises came and went like uninvited guests in my life, so I wasn’t about to jump to conclusions. Did I fall down a staircase? Did a doorframe attack me? Who’s to say?
But as I took another swig, that all-too-familiar wave of shame hit me. What kind of idiot gets a black eye the night before their wedding?
I covered it the best I could, grabbed my suitcase and a water bottle full of whiskey, then hopped into an Uber to Nordstrom Rack.
I had $60 and 45 minutes to find a wedding dress before heading off to Sin City.
A Wedding Dress for a Shotgun Wedding
Forty-five minutes later, drenched in sweat from wrestling with discounted, defective bridal rejects, I settled on a cheap ivory dress with shoulder straps two inches too low. It was the best I could do.
Tears threatened to spill. I hated this dress. But a shotgun wedding dress seemed fitting, given that neither my partner nor I ever planned for this day.
But it wasn’t about the dress. It was about who I was marrying.
No time to cry. No time to process. Time to get on that flight.
A Suspiciously Sweaty, Drunk and Disheveled Traveler Bound for Vegas
At Austin International Airport, I dragged a carry-on stuffed with chaos—loose makeup, questionable lingerie, my sad girl wedding dress, and a water bottle spiked with 2 ½ shots of whiskey. In true airplane alcoholic fashion, I downed my shots in the bathroom, stashed the empty bottle in the tampon disposal bin, and braced for my inevitable TSA pat-down.
My airport anxiety routine never failed to make me look suspicious. Oversized sunglasses? Check. Noise-canceling headphones? Check. Uncontrollable fidgeting and sweating like a whore in church? Double check. I blamed my disproportionate clown breasts (thanks, Mom) for the extra-intimate security screenings.
After a quick boob grope from a dead-eyed TSA agent, I was free to explore Terminal B, where I passed the time bar-hopping and sending nudes to my fiancé from the airport bathroom. Finally, it was time to board.
For the first time that day, it hit me—just four hours ago, I was dry heaving in a bathroom. Now, I was buzzing, radiant, and en route to get married. Would there be a parade waiting for me when I landed in Las Vegas? A tiara and sash at the gate? After all, it was my special day.
Bar-Hopping Before Boarding
I plopped down at the end of a bar inside a Mexican joint called "Something, Something, and Tequila," ordered a Don Julio shot and a beer to keep things chill.
Before airports started triggering my anxiety, I actually enjoyed them—something about the liminal space, the people-watching, the permission to drink at 7 a.m. without judgment.
A twenty-something brunette with a pixie cut, faux leather bell bottoms, and a shaggy orange vest sat next to me. She ordered Don Julio, too. Her choice of pants and booze gave me an odd sense of comfort.
"Final boarding call for flight 402 to Las Vegas."
Pre-Wedding Party at 30,000 Feet
I settled into my aisle seat, sending a quick prayer to the whiskey gods to avoid another flatulent, nervous flyer. By the window sat Cheryl, a middle-aged blonde in rubber sequined sandals, heading to Vegas for her sister’s bachelorette party. Then, SHE walked in—the brunette goddess from the tequila bar, the last to board before they shut the cabin door. Fate? Maybe.
Normally, I don’t chit-chat on flights, but alcohol makes me friendly, so I introduced myself. We bonded over booze, bad decisions, and debating which Nirvana member had the smallest pecs. Turns out, Cheryl planned to drink margaritas and scout for hot poolside talent, while Raz, the brunette in funky pants, was visiting her much older musician boyfriend.
When the flight attendant rolled up with the drink cart, I led the charge: Deep Eddy Lemonade Vodka with orange juice. My seatmates followed suit, and when I confessed I was getting hitched in Vegas, they squealed, toasted to my future, and bought me another shot.
Somehow, between sips of free vodka and existential dread, I invited them to my Vegas wedding. Cheryl said she’d come if she had time. Raz swore she’d be there. I suspected she was just being polite, but I appreciated the sentiment.
Before splitting up at Las Vegas Airport, we grabbed to-go beers and took drunken selfies on the shuttle. We hugged goodbye, declaring ourselves best friends forever before disappearing into our respective bad decisions.
A Stop at a Famous Pawn Shop & A Hooters Hotel Suite
I reunited with the groom-to-be—his initial irritation at my late arrival faded as I launched myself into his arms, inhaling a mix of Camel cigarettes and my cold sweat.
After a quick courthouse stop, we met his best friend Casey, who escorted us to a crowded pawn shop on the Vegas Strip to pick out wedding rings. My fiancé chose a gold band with four little purple gems. I picked a dark silver ring with a large red oval stone, unsure of what it was made of, but loving that it wasn’t a boring diamond.
We checked into our Hooters Hotel and Casino suite (now OYO), giving me an hour to do my makeup, fix my hair, and slam a couple more drinks. I botched my makeup, hated my dress, and spiraled into regret. But calling off the wedding minutes before walking down the aisle wasn’t an option. Instead, I chugged a final beer and punched myself in the leg, trying to drown out the creeping dread.
A Little White Chapel Wedding, Britney Spears Style
The Little White Chapel—yes, the same place Britney Spears married Jason Alexander—was already packed. Our wedding guests? Twenty young European au pairs, dressed like bottle girls at a strip club, tagging along with my tour guide fiancé before their Grand Canyon pit stop.
Just when I was about to run for another drink, Raz appeared, gliding in like an angel in a gold top, with her musician king in matching pants. She hugged me, told me I looked beautiful, and held my purse while using my phone to snap dozens of blurry ceremony photos.
Tears at the Altar and a Vegas Casino Bender
My husband-to-be looked dapper in a silver Western-style suit he’d snagged at a thrift store on his way to Vegas. Meanwhile, I was undoubtedly the worst-dressed person at my own wedding. My brain couldn’t process what was happening, so I cried and laughed through the entire ceremony, unsure what to do with my face.
That must not be common practice for a bride, because the officiant asked me twice if I was okay. I silently begged her with my red, tear-streaked face to stop embarrassing me. How dare she make me look crazy on my special day?
At some point, I even threw the bouquet when I wasn’t supposed to and had to turn around and pick it up.
After I said “I do,” I whispered something scandalous to my new husband that everyone heard. If there’s ever been a classier bride, I’ve never heard of her.
The night ended with my new husband and me getting drunk at the casino bar and later in our suite’s jacuzzi tub at the Hooters Hotel (now OYO).
Hurricane Harvey
Not long after our chaotic nuptials, I rushed back to Austin, Texas, alone, a newlywed woman fleeing just ahead of the infamous Hurricane Harvey. It wasn’t long before the inevitable collapse of my first marriage.
My little life in San Francisco feels worlds away from the hurricanes—both literal and metaphorical—of seven years ago. Treating myself with kindness has attracted kindness back into my life. My lovely partner is good to me—not just on the easy days, but on the hard ones, too.
We scored a charming little house by the beach, and each day is full of simple pleasures—coastal drives, plant shopping, foggy mornings, new gym routines, and friendly nods from neighbors on my daily walkabouts.
Day by day, and one day at a time, I’m learning to slow down and embrace the wide range of emotions we’re all so blessed (and cursed) with. I’ve traded destruction and isolation for warmth and connection, knowing now that it’s possible to find peace after the storm.
If the walls of my SF home could talk, they might call me boring, maybe even straight-edge. They’ve never seen me drunk. Hopefully, they never will.
I’d love to say I’d never marry in Vegas again, but honestly? I probably would. I still like to surprise myself sometimes.
