So I am kind of like a puppy: easily excitable, a little yappy, and small.  When I hit the town, I take with me this verve.  I am so excited to be out socializing (always have been) that I need to run around the block a couple of times to burn off some energy. Back in the day, this vigor worked to my advantage. I used to go out all night, pop right out of bed the next day, and head to work. Then do it all over again the next day.

I am smidge older now and “the town” I’m hitting is more of the gown up variety – events. While my joie de vivre is of the same caliber, my tolerance is clearly not.

I’m a two drink Charlie, a cheap date if you will.  I really should not have more than two drinks – period. But something happens to me when I am out. Maybe I am thirsty from all my chatting about my daughter, dog, how all these kids were crying at the beach, or re-enacting scenes from the Rock of Ages movie (it really is awesome). Maybe Prosecco just tastes so good on a hot day. Or maybe, I forget that I am a grown-ass woman with a low tolerance.

My husband and I recently attended a fabulous surf and turf dinner on the beach with three other couples. We won this event at my daughter’s Catholic School Auction (another white wine debauchery). The dinner was put on by great people and we had a fabulous time.

Then we went to a bar.

Having already ingested copious amounts of dink, I really did not need that vodka and soda. I knew it, but it was handed to me, so that was that. If you had been there you would have seen had your eardrums busted by a tiny blonde woman in a rain-soaked and dirty sundress doing the following:

–          Making best friends with the bartender

–          Inviting said bartender to a cookout (which I did not attend)

–          Trying to freak-dance with my husband to a song by Poison

–          Husband trying to shake wife off his leg

–          Giving the bartender sh*t about his hair/shirt/the weather and most likely calling him the “p” word in the process

–          Hiccups

Then we went home (my husband drove – don’t worry – even I’m not that much of a do-do) so I could pay the babysitter and try to have a lucid conversation about her going to college. I know I told her I had a bit too much to drink by using bizarre hand gestures and facial expressions akin to a Bell’s Palsy patient.

Then I puked for ten hours the next day while my husband said things like, “Did you learn your lesson?” and the dog licked my face.

Classy, I know.

While my abs are much tauter after a day of heaving, the moral of this story is for me to keep it in check. I can still be that little puppy excited to be out socializing with all the other little puppies, but I don’t have to “get this party started” by ice luging some Woo Woo shots. “Open Bar” doesn’t mean I have to run up to it like the Mister Mouth game. I’m a lady for chrissake.

That and if you see me reaching for a third drink, slap my hand like a Biggest Loser contestant going for a Tasty Cake.