I know I'm getting old because my alcohol tolerance is SHOT.

I used to be quite the little party animal. In first year of college, I used up my entire year's worth of spending money by the first week of November. Guess what I spent it on? Hint: it wasn't charitable donations, music lessons or presents for my family.

When I entered the work world I drank pretty often, out of boredom or frustration. I was often lonely and unhappy, living in shitty cities where I didn't know anyone, and there was nada to do except get a little buzz on and deal.

At the beginning of 2006 I moved to the city that boasts the most bars per capita in Canada to work on marketing a beer account. Translation: drinks aplenty. All the time.

It was nothing to come home from the office on a Wednesday, eat some cheese and crackers for dinner, and chase it with a bottle of wine while watching TV. I'd wake up the next morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and not the slightest bit of a hangover.

Those days are gonzo.

Every Wednesday, H2B and I have dinner together which we take turns planning and preparing, and we have a glass of wine with dinner. It's like a little "yay! we survived half a week!" treat. This glass (singular) of wine is enough to get me buzzed! Houston, we have a problem!

Last Saturday, we decided to go out for dinner and then do the bar thing downtown. I had two glasses of wine with dinner and was half in the bag when we left the restaurant. That was followed with a vodka and diet Coke at the casino and then two more drinks at another nearby bar. So, just to provide some helpful math assistance, I had five drinks total. That officially counts as binge drinking, I guess, though a few years ago it would have been summed up as "Sunday brunch".

Anyway, five drinks and I was a complete waste face. H2B accused me of "hooting and hollering" and I definitely had a toilet paper trail stuck to my heel at the bar, which I am forever grateful to the nice chummy bathroom girl for removing, and I definitely drunk Tweeted like an arse and misspelled every word. On the cab ride home I sang Michael Jackson during the entire drive. The cab driver didn't respond, but I was clearly having the time of my life.

On Sunday, I felt like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag, ALL DAY. Besides that, there's the fact that I can't sleep past 7:00 am on weekends, no matter how late I get to bed or how zonked I am--yet another testament to my old age.

It makes me kind of sad. While it's nice to achieve a drunk of epic proportions and spend minimal cash getting there--I used to spend at minimum $60, and often way more than that, every time I went out--I feel pretty geriatric when I'm suffering all day the next day for my minor debauchery. I have the liver of an 80-year-old woman. I have a body that can't handle drinkypoos. It's tragic, really.

I'm too old to drink.

And soon I'll be mistaken for a cougar.

Sign me up for CPP. I'm done.