How’s my Tuesday going? I’m wearing sunglasses at my Big Girl Desk at the office as I type this. That’s how my Tuesday is going, and thank you for asking.

It seems that no matter how many times I tell myself, “I can’t party the way I used to,” I keep pushing. Now I’m the ridiculous 30 year old who has a hangover at work on a Tuesday, and I just thank my lucky stars that I have awesome coworkers with an amazing sense of humor.

When I was 23 years old, that was just a regular Tuesday, as I was sterling example of Rule #76. Karaoke, sports bars, late night dance parties, and many nights up and down the East Coast… those were the days.

I think. It’s all a bit hazy.

Now I’m pitiful. I’m not a kid anymore. I say things like “I don’t get music today,” with no trace of irony. And a crazy Friday night for me often consists of Arrested Development re-runs, pretentious craft beer that I document religiously on Untappd like the good white yupster that I am, and using either Boy or Girl Dog as a pillow.

I try to keep this at the front of my mind, because dammit, I’m an adult. And now I have awful, alcohol-related physical shenanigans like getting hangover headaches within two drinks on the same night. It is the WORST.

But there are external triggers and key phrases that blow all of those rational thoughts right out the window. They include:

Half-priced wine bottle specials.
Why would you do that? Are you just THAT hard-pressed to have a bunch of gaggling women talking loudly for HOURS about men, shopping, and bras in your establishment? Because half-priced bottles of wine is a straight up guarantee that my ass will be planted at one of your tables for at least two hours. And I’m loud.

“Have you tried our new Bloody Mary?”
I used to hate Bloody Marys. Now I love them. That was the worst thing that could possibly ever happen to me. Ever. And it’s like the Pokemon of drinks, too. There are so many different variations that I’m now on this “gotta catch ’em all” quest for Bloody Marys.

On a similar note, any sort of bottomless brunch special.
Actually just brunch in general. Brunch is a terrible, awful cult in Washington, D.C. that will suck you in until you’re a lifeless husk craving some slammin’ frittatas the way zombies crave brains. “COME TO BRUNCH. BE ONE OF US.”

“Let’s just go for one night cap.”
This phrase is a death sentence, as it guarantees lots of regret the next morning. Lots of regret. And wincing. And then more regret. And the tireless refrain of, “Did I really say that? Oh no, I really said that.”

Craft beer tastings, beer-pairing dinners, or growler hours anywhere.
Somehow I justify it because it’s “craft beer,” or something. Or “supporting a local business,” because that’s a big thing us white people LOVE doing. It gives us an undeserved, snooty sense of satisfaction.

Basically I suffer from the fact that I’m a dumb white girl who is big enough to admit (under the cloak of anonymity on the internet, of course), that I love things like picking out beers at Whole Foods and then drinking them all until I’m stupid.

And I’m not the only one.

If you think I’m kidding, grab some popcorn, go to Whole Foods on a Saturday, and plant yourself in front of the beer case. You’ll see all of us there in droves. Ladies in leggings, big ridiculous wrap cardigans, and flats. Men in jeans, loafers, maybe a worn-in Polo, or a t-shirt of a band in the 90s. We all stand there, pondering the selection of beers available. Occasionally we’ll chime in if we see someone looking at something we know we like, because it makes us feel good about ourselves.

“Oh yea, that’s a great one. Perfect for chili… or a great filet of salmon if you can believe it.”

These types of interactions make me smile. The kind of smug smile that would probably earn me a punch right in the lady junk. I am that asshole at Whole Foods, and sometimes I just enjoy it.

But I can never be too smug. You know why? Because all of these “adult” notions get me in trouble.

AND NOW I AM HUNGOVER ON A TUESDAY, WEARING SUNGLASSES AT MY DESK.

I can’t party the way I used to anymore. At least until the beer-pairing dinner I’m going to next week.