Counting Tomorrow Instead of Drinks

I wouldn’t say I’m trying to quit drinking. That would imply resolve, discipline, and some sort of moral awakening. None of those apply here. What I am trying to do—tentatively, experimentally, and with a healthy dose of skepticism—is stop pretending I don’t know exactly how much I drink.

Am I an alcoholic? No.
Am I a problem drinker? Also no.
Do I drink more than I should? Almost certainly.

That last question is the one that keeps returning, like a bill you shove into a drawer because you’re not in the mood to deal with it yet.

I don’t drink every day. I don’t drink in the morning. I don’t miss work or forget conversations or wake up wondering where my phone went. By most social standards, I’m fine. By medical standards, I’m a collection of yellow flags stitched together with good intentions. My blood pressure is “something to keep an eye on.” My sleep is “not ideal.” My weight “could come down a bit.” These are the phrases doctors use when they don’t want to scare you but also don’t want to lie.

I’ve been warned before. I’ve nodded solemnly before. I’ve promised myself I’ll cut back before. Sometimes I even do—briefly. Long enough to feel virtuous. Not long enough to feel different.

The problem isn’t motivation. It’s honesty.

When I try to “drink less,” the rules are vague. Vague rules are easy to negotiate with. One drink becomes two. Two becomes “well, today was stressful.” Before long, the goalposts have quietly walked themselves down the street and I’m congratulating myself for moderation that only exists in comparison to my worst weeks.

So I decided to try something else.

Instead of counting drinks, units, calories, or days sober, I decided to count tomorrows.

Here’s the logic: drinking today doesn’t really affect today. Today is already happening. Drinking affects tomorrow—how I sleep, how I wake, how sharp my thoughts are, how much patience I have for small annoyances. Tomorrow pays the bill.

So the new rule is simple: every drink I have today must be paid for with a tomorrow I’m willing to downgrade.

One drink costs a slightly slower morning.
Two drinks cost a foggy head.
Three drinks cost motivation.
Four drinks cost mood.

I’m not banning anything. I’m pricing it.

Each morning, I write the day’s “quality” on a small note stuck to my fridge. Sharp. Average. Flat. Heavy. I don’t judge it. I don’t explain it. I just record it. At the end of the week, I look back and see what I bought.

The first thing I noticed was how often I was spending tomorrows casually—like pocket change. A beer because it was there. A glass of wine because it was evening. Another because the first didn’t quite land. None of it dramatic. All of it cumulative.
The second thing I noticed was resistance. Not cravings—those are obvious and honest—but irritation. A low-level annoyance that I couldn’t do something simply because I always had. That feeling turned out to be more instructive than guilt ever was.

On day three, I didn’t drink. Not because I was trying to be good, but because tomorrow mattered. On day four, I had one drink and stopped—not out of discipline, but because the price felt too high. On day five, I drank more than planned and woke up heavy, unmotivated, and quietly annoyed with myself. The system worked. The receipt matched the purchase.

I haven’t told friends or family about this. Not because I’m hiding it, but because I’m not performing it. This isn’t a redemption arc. It’s not a declaration. It’s a private audit.

There’s something freeing about removing morality from the equation. Drinking isn’t bad. Not drinking isn’t virtuous. There are only outcomes. You choose one, you get the other. No speeches required.

I don’t know if this will make me drink less long-term. I don’t know if I’ll abandon it in a month. But I do know that for the first time, I’m not negotiating with myself in bad faith. I’m not pretending moderation means whatever I want it to mean that day.
This isn’t about control. It’s about clarity.
And clarity, it turns out, is surprisingly sobering.