Forgive me if I beg for booze ban

A booze ban will suit me down to a tee – and not because I know drunken fights that land you in hospital start after the fourth glass of whatever your poison is.

My booze ban will stop me getting up the morning after the night before, slapping myself in the mirror.

Some call it inhibitions that go out of the window after the fourth glass. I call it standards. They decidedly slip, especially with men.

That man with his “dating budget” you call stingy under your breath? That one whose lip-licking makes you shudder?

The one who’s got his mouth full about your out-of-job sons? Or even the one, sweet as he is, who twirls his beard until your eyes roll back?

They all look good after the fourth – and that’s my problem. Don’t get me wrong. My male friends can twirl their beards and I won’t twitch an eye.

They can slobber, be opinionated and we’ll split the bill without even thinking about it.

Even a fifth glass won’t make the slightest difference between either inhibitions, or standards, simply because I neither want to marry, nor bed them. They just don’t tickle my fancy.

It’s those that do, who become my morning-after-the-night-before regret.

I’ve dated you, some for months, some for weeks, and the scales tipped on the low side for me.

We talked about it – me maybe a bit too honestly – and moved on. Until my fourth glass.

They say time makes you forget. They got that right: I forget about the lip-smacking, twirling, fat little fingers, hairy ears and all and sundry I found a turn-off then.

In my marinated mind, I just remember that midnight picnic under the stars in the middle of a small-town veld; that tattoo I loved despite my aversion to them; how you raved about my morning hair-nest; how special I felt when you surprised me with that impromptu dirty weekend.

I didn’t even mind the caravan (yes, read cheapskate).

And that’s when I pick up the phone…

My choice, my mistake entirely, I know.

But forgive me if I beg for a booze ban. A girl has standards, you know?