By Olusola Adeyegbe
There was a time in my life when a bottle of stout and I were on first-name terms. Not acquaintances. Not casual friends. No. We were committed. Consistent. Almost contractual. I would walk into a restaurant and, without a word from me, the waiters would nod knowingly and bring my usual… as if we had all signed an unspoken agreement.
Then life and wisdom intervened… and I suspect they had a private meeting about me.
These days, I approach my beloved drink like a long-distance relationship. We see each other occasionally. We miss each other deeply. And when we finally reunite… ah, fireworks.
Now here is the curious thing I have discovered. When I return after three or four weeks of noble restraint, that first sip does not behave like an ordinary sip. It arrives like a prodigal son. It sings. It testifies. It reminds me of the early days when everything was new and nothing was taken for granted.
And I paused one day and asked myself, “Sola, what is going on here? Has the brewer improved the formula, or have you finally learned to stay away long enough to enjoy it?”
Science, in its usual calm and slightly smug manner, explains that my brain had simply stopped being impressed when I was over-visiting. Familiarity, as it turns out, does not just breed contempt. It also dulls enjoyment.
But give it space… give it time… and suddenly even the ordinary becomes extraordinary again.
What a lesson!
You see, many of us make the same mistake with pleasure. We overindulge, and then the spark goes not because the thing is no longer good, but because we have refused to give it the dignity of absence. We flood our senses until delight becomes routine.
Then we complain.
“It doesn’t feel the same anymore.”
Of course it doesn’t. You have overstayed your own enjoyment.
But introduce space, and something magical happens. Anticipation returns. Your senses wake up. Your brain says, “Ah! This again. Where have you been?”
It is almost as if life whispers, “I reward those who exercise a little patience.”
So here is my humble, slightly mischievous counsel to my fellow enthusiasts. If you already drink, try this experiment. Step back. Not forever, we are not starting a monastery here. Just… give it breathing room.
Let the longing build a little.
Let memory do its quiet work.
Then return.
You may find, as I did, that you have not lost anything. In fact, you have regained something you didn’t realise you had quietly misplaced. The joy of the first sip. The surprise. The simple laughter that comes with rediscovery.
In a strange way, drinking less did not reduce the pleasure. It multiplied it.
Now if only we could apply this principle to other areas of life. Food. Conversation. Even relationships. But let us not run ahead of ourselves. One miracle at a time.
For now, I raise a thoughtful glass to discipline, to anticipation, and to the simple wisdom of not over-visiting your own pleasures.
Because sometimes, the secret is not in having more…
It is in learning to pause.
With love and laughter,
