Pouring one out for my homies

And by "my homies," I mean myself, my former self, the one I remember as Sara, Sarabeth or SB.

I can no longer drink. The last two times I tried to have more than one British unit (a glass of wine or a beer), I got violently ill. Yes, I get violently ill over just about anything, but considering I used to be able to drink 12 margaritas from Z Tejas, this just isn't flying.

Except that it is because it has to. I am a mere shell of my former self. And I miss that self. I do. I'm tempted to call it a latent allergy that only recently reared its ugly head, only I'm afraid that allergy might be motherhood, and that's no fun to admit or live through.

Ugh, I'm finally feeling old.