It Only Takes Two

If you didn't know me before I turned 25 years old then you didn't know the Kim that could drink a bottle of wine and not throw up. You didn't know the Kim that slugged a 40 in her subletted Upper East Side apartment, booted, rallied and then headed out to Mad River for a wild night of dancing. You didn't know the Kim that slammed back body shots at a college bar and stayed out until 5 in the morning on Thursday, Friday, AND Saturday nights.

That Kim is long gone. For the past few years, it only takes about two drinks to get me to THAT place - the one where I start slurring my words, dancing (bopping) around, and craving late night (10pm!) pizza. Two drinks is all it takes to bring on drunken tears, to garner stories of mysterious eggs showing up in my purse the next day and random tales of spitting water at my boyfriend as we lay in bed and have conversations I can't remember the next day.

In fact, two drinks is all it takes to elicit an unpleasant hangover - and if I go beyond two drinks, well, then I have a hangover that won't go away for a few days. Which is why the enjoyment of drinking is losing its luster. I hate the idea of wasting a day, of waking up with a pounding headache, of craving crappy food slathered in ketchup and fried in oil.

Now that my Saturday nights are spent playing board games with a group of couples while sipping wine rather than pounding beers while playing Asshole and Shoulders ; I hope somewhere, someone has a lingering vision of the Kim I used to be: a dancing maniac double fisting two beers, stumbling home at 3am and getting up to go for a 3 mile run the next day.