a dint in my social pleasure
Oh my, how I love a glass of red wine, of champagne, a bottle of ice cold beer, a minty mojito, a salty margarita … but woe is me, my body is rebelling. I used to have a right old fun time in my 20s, drinking, drinking, drinking, occasional bad hangovers but nothing to stop the party. Then in my 30s the horrible hangovers started becoming all too frequent: wiped out for a whole day throwing up, and several days after that before I felt back to normal. Not one to take a hint, or a dint in my social pleasure, I continued looking for elusive alcoholic beverage my body could tolerate. Never really found it. Well, never found it at all.
Now, after two years of baby-related abstinence, I figured my body would have recovered whatever it had lost and the occasional night out with a couple of sensible drinks would be no problem at all. Turns out not to be the case. Turns out I’ve probably obliterated the cheeky digestive enzymes that dealt with my friend alcohol, and one small, delightful glass of the beer, the wine or the cocktail wipes me out, leaving me tired, depressed and downright miserable.
What’s the big deal? Well, apart from the fact I relish in the many wonderful tastes, I’ve always had a theory that alcohol serves the very useful purpose of stopping people taking themselves too seriously. The process of getting slightly giddy, loosening the tongue and maybe feeling a tad embarrassed the next day, is invaluable for laughing at oneself and even for relaxing the uptight uptightness that reeks of sobriety.
Woe is me, indeed.