If there’s one thing that really makes you feel old, it would have to be the hangover. When I was younger, people used to tell me that as you get older your drinking recovery time gets longer. I would laugh at such fallacies. Scoff at such tales. But then, it started. Little by little, year by year, the headaches would linger a little longer. The waistline expanded a little wider. Things were taking a turn for the worse.
While I couldn’t enjoy the night scene like I used to, I had come to terms with that. I am now older, wiser. I use fancy glasses, and come up with wild drink concoctions. I am a self proclaimed master mixologist. I choose quality over quantity.
And then Sunday hits, and I am defeated. My aging body has turned on me, despite all of the gatorades and electrolytes I drank in preparation. I am a sad sight, slumped over in my bed, holding my temple, wishing for the pounding to stop. Lazy Sundays have hit a new extreme, all because I had three margaritas. Just three.
I succumb to my illness, and vow that next time I will only have two.
And then, I sound like those that have come before me: I just can’t drink like I used to.