I can’t drink anymore. Well, hardly anything. And it pisses me off.

In my twenties, my roommate and I would marvel at the volume of wine bottles in the trash can after a weekend. We were embarrassed, but maybe a little proud of ourselves. What partiers we were! She and I still went to work Monday morning, feeling fine, ready to take on the world.

In my thirties, I noticed I had to be more careful or I’d get a hangover. It didn’t happen very often, because I was working hard, building my career and raising my son. I didn’t get out that much. Although rare, waking up with a headache and a queasy stomach nevertheless served as a reminder that I had overindulged, and I learned to dial it back.

But then middle age crept up, and in my forties I noticed this new phenomenon: the pre-hangover. Even if I drank very little, just a couple of glasses of wine, I might still wake up the next morning feeling tired, sluggish and unmotivated. How depressing.

Now in my fifties, there’s even a new phase: impairment. After one glass of wine, I feel like taking a nap. I don’t have the snap and verve of normal energy. If I want to get anything done after that, forget it. So if I’m dining out, I’ll order a diet Coke. If I’m at a party, I’ll mix diet Seven-Up with white wine, and drink a lot of water. Woo hoo.

Not.

Ah, well. A person adjusts, and there are benefits. I’m sure I’m healthier. I like waking up in the morning feeling clear-headed and energetic. I weigh about five pounds less than I used to, and my stomach is flatter. I’m a popular dinner companion because I fill the role of designated driver.

The only downside is watching other people suck it down, and listening to their increasingly brainless laughter.

Party on.