I have had two conversations looping in my head recently.

The first occurred at a garage sale where the word FABRIC had been prominently advertised. I have a friend who is a retired ATF agent, and he told me that during agent training, everyone had to get in touch with his “price”: the tipping point that could convert one to the dark side. As I grow older, I have come to the sad realization that my price could be as little as an armful of wooden bangles, a subscription to a luxury skein-of-the-month knitting site, a vintage basket purse with Bakelite handles, a perfect pair of red shoes, and a cache of colorful fabric. (I suppose this is good, because except for the subscription, I’m pretty much living my own dream.) So I saw the garage sale poster and became blinded by FABRIC. I drove as if the entire world was stampeding to this yard sale for the same reason as I — yet much to my surprise, I found that there was plenty of fabric still to be had.

Go figure.

I selected from the bounty an eight-yard parcel of an African block print and a couple of yards of a Kravet zebra print, and as I mentally waxed rhapsodic about the enormous skirt and sleek shift dress that were my destiny, the seller confronted me. She first wanted to educate me about the fabric I had selected, which I assured her was completely unnecessary. She next wanted to show me what she was sewing, which was also unnecessary but I went along nonetheless. And she then wanted payment (which even I will concede was necessary).

This was also embarrassing, for in my haste to beat out the undoubtedly millions of Savannahians who had heard the siren song of FABRIC, I saw the sign after my Hot Pilates class and went straight there, equipped only with a towel and yoga mat, and no wallet or cell phone.

Oops.

So there was awkward conversation, followed by a dawning realization that we had an awful lot in common. There was my promise to Venmo her the money (I did). There was her request for all of my contact information, because she announced many times that we were going to be new best friends. And as I gave her my cell number, I thought, “Oh no. Oh please no.” Stressing our similarities, there was her repeated insistence that I have a glass of wine.

Of course. A glass of wine at 9:30 on a Saturday morning with a stranger at a yard sale.

The second conversation was a few days later with my family physician. Like the little Dutch boy who put his finger in the dam, she currently is my only line of defense against all health crises. I love this woman, the one who put together a single day of pain with a few months of farting to arrive at the conclusion that I needed a colonoscopy now. She is younger than I am, and I selected her in part because she would not reach retirement age until I was safely dead. She spared me from any blood work, for I had been poked and prodded enough in recent months. And when we were talking about the care and maintenance of ALC, I blurted out almost apologetically, “I’ve sort of quit drinking and definitively started meditating. Is that okay?” And dear Dr. Cowart told me that she was happy to hear that I had made some positive health changes.

I had declined that Saturday morning glass of wine with my new yard sale BFF (who, thankfully, never called) — just as I have declined every glass of wine and tumbler of bourbon that have come my way recently. This sometimes seems a shame, for I am the friend who can reliably select a decent yet moderately priced bottle of wine from the menu. All of those delicious years of bourbon tasting have gone the way of the angel’s share. Buffalo Trace Distillery will not be sending me another birthday card, like it did when I turned 50.

I tapered off. I told myself that alcohol should be like chocolate cake: a rare pleasure to enjoy in celebration with friends. I then limited myself to one glass a week. And when even that seemed like too much, I quit completely. I recently ordered a mocktail, and when the waiter asked if I knew that the drink was non-alcoholic, I replied, “Yes. And so am I.”

There were no addiction issues, although there have been times that I will allow that I have drunk too much. My oncologist told me that there was no link between alcohol consumption and colon cancer, although the CDC disagrees. (And if you can’t trust the government, who can you trust?) As I roll into the first anniversary of my diagnosis, there was just the realization that with all the work that I had done to get better, both physically and emotionally, it was simply time to quit. I just don’t want to be sick again.

I did not think it would be hard, but it kind of was. I remember so many nights of being the life of the party, of having a delicious meal with a really nice bottle of wine, of having a bad day at work that suddenly seemed not as bad when Jim Beam held my hand. I cannot decide whether it Is harder not to drink in a small group or harder not to drink at a cocktail party. It somehow feels implicitly judgmental, even though it is not. It’s like you’re having a rager, and the Church Lady has suddenly shown up.

On the bright side: At 51, no one thinks I’m pregnant when I decline a drink. And I’m getting quite the reputation as a designated driver.

I am convinced that I have suspect coping mechanisms, for I am embarrassed to admit that the following things have helped:

First, I got a Kindle for my birthday, which has really upped the amount I read. (As an occasional insomniac with arthritic hands, I find it much easier to hold and to read in the middle of the night.) I am cheap, too, so I look for sale books. I made it exactly 32% of the way through one of those 99 cent books — “Drink: The Intimate Relationship Between Women and Alcohol” — before putting it down in a mixture of boredom and disgust. Buoyed by the success of targeted marketing toward women in the cigarette markets (You’ve come a long way, baby!), alcohol manufacturers decided to focus on an under-served market: women. This angered me.

Second, I read the CDC fact sheet on alcohol and public health. It was sobering. (Yes: three sentences, two puns!)

Third, and probably the most motivating thing of the bunch, I started banking the money I did not spend on wine at dinners out, all to the end of seeing the world. And before I know it, I will be stone-cold sober in all sorts of regions around the world known especially for their wine production. I understand the irony, and I offer myself this simple solace: cheese.

Fourth, there will be no Shirley Temples for this girl. Coca-Cola, especially the bottled Mexican version made with real cane sugar, is such a luxury at my age, and in accordance with Dr. Cowart’s good counsel about triglycerides, best enjoyed rarely. Like at a cocktail party.

Finally, I went to Disney last week with my sister. Y’all, I had no idea of the drinking culture at Epcot, where “drinking around the world” (i.e., drinks from all eight country pavilions) is a thing. I saw so many T-shirts with mouse ears and wine glasses that I lost count, with sayings like “Drinkerbell” and “Bibbidy Boppity Booze” and “Hakuna Moscato: It means no memories for the rest of the day.” (You can sing it. That’s okay.) Most of the wearers had sunburned skin the color of hot dogs on rollers at a convenience store, and one of them sort of pawed at me repeatedly in apology after she crashed into me when I was leaving the Frozen ride. It all seemed so upside down, to go from Elsa to a sloppy drunk. Let it go, indeed.

So here I am. Unsure of exactly how to feel about all of this. Turning down wine offered by a stranger at a yard sale. Occasionally uncomfortable in my surroundings. Saving money. Hoping to dodge more cancer. Bewildered by the combination of Mickey Mouse and margaritas. Really listening to people at parties and then driving them home. Swilling Coca-Cola and eating cheese. Searching for FABRIC.

I console myself with this much: I’m still having a whole lot of fun.

ALC