From Shot Queen to Cranberry Crusader: My Hilarious Descent (or Ascent?) into Sobriety (ish)

Let's be real, there was a time when I could out-drink a pirate. Tequila shots? Bring 'em on. Rumple Minze? I'd practically gargle it. Vodka? Please, that was my water. (Okay, maybe not, but you get the picture.) I was a social butterfly, flitting from bar to bar, a connoisseur of questionable cocktails and even more questionable decisions.

But then, something magical happened. I grew up. Or maybe my stomach just staged a full-blown revolt. Either way, the days of throwing back shots like they were going out of style (spoiler alert: they're always going out of style) are officially OVER. My body has declared a hard "no" on anything stronger than a particularly potent kombucha, and honestly? I'm kind of on board.

Let’s talk specifics, shall we? Vodka? That icy demon tastes like regret distilled into a clear liquid. Rumple Minze? It’s like drinking mouthwash that’s also trying to give you hypothermia. And tequila? Oh, tequila. You're the wild card, the instigator of questionable texts and even more questionable dance moves. You and I, my friend, are through. The porcelain gods and I have had enough intimate moments thanks to you.

These days, you'll find me at the bar, not ordering a round of shots, but politely requesting a cranberry juice. And let me tell you, it’s a revelation. No more waking up feeling like I've been hit by a truck driven by regret. No more piecing together hazy memories like a hungover detective trying to solve the mystery of the missing pizza. Just pure, unadulterated hydration and the smug satisfaction of knowing I won't spend the next day cradling a bucket.

Now, here's where things get interesting. Apparently, some people have a hard time grasping the concept of "no." I say I don't want a drink, and they hear, "Please, spend your hard-earned cash on a beverage I will politely sip before discreetly passing it off to someone else when you’re not looking." It’s like they think I’m playing hard to get with a shot of bottom-shelf whiskey. Newsflash, people: I'm not. I'm playing hard to get with a hangover.

So, here's my official declaration: I am now a Cranberry Crusader. I wield my ruby-red beverage like a shield against peer pressure and impending nausea. I am a champion of clear-headed conversations and mornings that don't involve a frantic search for painkillers. And if you try to buy me a shot, I will politely but firmly decline, then probably make a witty remark about how much I enjoy remembering the previous night.

So, raise your cranberry glasses (or whatever you’re drinking—no judgment… unless it’s Rumple Minze, then maybe a little judgment). Here's to making smart choices, respecting boundaries, and realizing that sometimes, the most fun you can have is the kind you can actually remember. Cheers! (With cranberry juice, of course.)

Being in certain places or around certain things triggers my anxiety intensely. I recognize that specific people also cause me significant stress and exacerbate my anxiety. I need to prioritize my own well-being. Why do these individuals constantly feel the need to offer unsolicited input or needlessly stress me out? I genuinely don't care about their opinions; they only serve to worsen my anxiety. Their input is irrelevant to me.