I have suddenly recognized my strongest, most insidious nemesis: Frailty, thy name is LIQUOR.

For the last two years, my boyfriend and I have enjoyed the luxury of being able to sit back in the evening with some nice music or a movie… and a steady supply of booze. Why? Well, why not? He can afford it, I can (sort of) afford it, and life is too short to deny yourself affordable pleasures.

Okay, so liquor in any form is basically empty carbs and calories. I get that. But I think it’d still be manageable empty carbs and calories, if I stuck to my old stand-bys, the Caesar and the Vodka Cran, and enjoyed their company in moderation.

But nooo. That would be too wise.

Lately my poison of choice has been Bailey’s Irish Cream. Yes, that one. The one that’s essentially whiskey, cream, and sugar. Uh huh. And the thing is, I drink it over ice and - I’m only slightly exaggerating here - by the gallon. To give you some idea of how slight an exaggeration that is, last night I drank over 30 oz. of the stuff. You know what that means? I’ll tell you: it means, over the course of a few hours of relaxation and entertainment, I ingested more than a whole day’s allotment of calories and fat.

Let me repeat that.

Over the course of a few hours, I ingested more than A WHOLE DAY’S allotment of CALORIES AND FAT.

My god - I shudder just typing that.

So hear ye hear ye, Bailey’s… we’ve had a good run together. You’ve been a comfort after a long day’s work, a silky smooth friend when I needed it most. But it’s not going to work out. I’m sorry. I’m leaving you for Vodka and the first half of a Winston Churchill quote.

“I drink in moderation. All day long.“