It is as inevitable as taxes and death: as we age, our tolerance for alcohol starts to wane. If you are reading these words as a sprightly 20-something-year-old, having consumed a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 last night with little more than a slight headache to show for it, trust me, it’s coming for you. Enjoy this honeymoon period.
For those of us edging towards, or indeed long past middle age, I have no doubt you are nodding along sagely to my words. There were times we could knock back enough of the good stuff to floor a rhinoceros and still get up for work the next day, but now the mere sight of a full fat Coke after midday is enough to throw our sleep schedule out of the window. It’s all part of the great circle of life. You can tear it up in your youth but you have to rein it back in as you age – or you will pay the price.
For the past few years, I have found myself in the denial stage of this process. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was not. I kept trying to drink like I did in my salad days, but the resulting hangovers and anxiety became so severe that on many occasions I considered phoning The Samaritans hotline for emotional support. It was like a liquid lobotomy. I have always had bad hangovers, but I am now at the point where the punishment no longer fits the crime. To put it simply, it’s just not worth it anymore.
