Five years of pregnancy and breastfeeding have totally squished my alcohol tolerance. I will need to jump on the shots wagon once Chewy is fully weaned. No, no, no – shots are for clueless beginners. Or twenty-somethings, which I’m so not. Perhaps I’ll swallow my pride and start off with some chick drinks (very PC, feminist me). After all, I’m not trying to outdrink a bunch of dudes at an after-work pub in order to compensate for my lack of stature. Or gender.

Maybe I should use this, uh, opportunity to quit for good like I swore every time I nursed a hangover with a buttery toasted bagel and bottomless black coffee. ‘sides, I think I’m at a point where I’d feel sleepy before any signs of getting buzzed cropped in. Some would call that old. And I would, I would…I would just Kung Fu kick ’em with a double-split in the air, if only my calcium-starved bones wouldn’t snap in agony. Excuse me while I fix myself a cold, tall glass of a Postpartum Mary aka strawberry milk.