Long ago, way before kids entered my world, before I became a mom, I actually drank.

Beer.

Cocktails.

You know, that kind of antidote.

Enough so that I got drunk.

Fun drunk.

Talkative drunk.

Wobbly drunk.

Dumb drunk.

And even sometimes what-the-heck-did-I-do drunk.

Oh, boy, were those the days. I actually knew how to salsa on those drink-filled nights.

Rudy would take me into towns were the music blared and the people laughed.

Talking wasn’t necessary, only the gyrating movements of our bodies.

I’d grasp my hair, pulling it up off my sweating shoulders, slow my pace, rock my hips to and fro, if only for a moment, so that I could take a swig of the drink that was passed my way.

Long Island Iced Tea.

Later, we’d come home, and fall face first onto the bed.

Carefree.

Wild.

And young.