I was 27. Yup, you read that right— 27. I could count the number of drinks I’d had before then on my fingers. Anyway, it was my last night at a job before my husband and I were moving to NYC. The district manager was in the store, so all but one of my store managers forgot to say good-bye to me. I was beyond pissed. A night out was already planned (our customary good-bye to long-term employees), so everyone kept buying me cranberry vodkas and I kept drinkin’ ‘em ‘cause I was pissed. Cut to the next morning, 7 a.m., movers are on their way. I was a wreck. The next time I got that drunk was last year, four years later. I’m apparently a once-every-four-years drunk, which is probably a good thing.