Hangover

On Saturday night, The Boy and I cracked open a bottle of champers to celebrate being in our new home and finally filling his old room. 

Unfortunately, that is about the last thing I remember from Saturday night. 

I don't remember drinking French Martini's in some random bar. 

I don't remember severely scratching my eye with a poorly coordinated high-five follow through. 

I don't remember falling down, falling off my chair, and falling down again and stumbling all over the place.

Nor do I remember getting home.

I do however, remember waking up to a spinning bedroom. I also clearly remember being surprised of the colour of my vomit on Sunday Morning and the acidic taste it left in my mouth. I also remember laying on the floor of the living room unable to function clearly enough to even object when The Boy put on Formula One. 

So perhaps, all in all, drinking is no longer for me. At least, no more cocktails and no more mixing drinks. And from now on wine shall only be drunk with dinners. 

It's difficult because while I do like going out for a few drinks, however  I've reached the inevitable point in my life where I would just rather stay home, not spend money and relax so that I can spend my days doing fun activities.  

But inevitably, I will still have to go out. It'll just be a test of my discipline to not succumb to peer pressure and drink myself into oblivion.