On that rare occasion that you accept the third glass, however, things will change. Distant alarms will ring in the bowels of your fizzy brain, systems will panic. You will be vaguely aware of an approaching crisis, but are easily distracted and fairly sure of your magnetism. You know that you’ve dropped the reins and the horses are feeling a little frisky, but you hold on tight and laugh and laugh while your inner mirror is quietly scolding you for your ugly bad behavior, showing you all the ways you’ve ever failed and the horror will creep in, ever so slowly, and you will realize that you have, just three glasses in, become that girl. No, you’ve become that woman — the girl could still ooze messy charm. The woman, well past the days of knowing, deep into the days of experience and lessons learned, is just a mess. No heat, no charm, just mess.
You will drag your pitiful, disheveled self off to a quiet room, off to bed feeling slightly deranged and deeply sorry for yourself and ashamed of your knack for the epic bad choice. You will make notes, promise yourself, never the third. Never again the third.
Never ever the third.