Or I’d black out.

That was happening more frequently. Worse was when I’d suddenly black back in — Hello, you went away there for a second. As I rejoined the conversation, my expression was that of a child trying really hard to re-enter a double Dutch game without messing up the skipping ropes.

By 37, I was no longer a functioning alcoholic. I was a barely functioning one, my body unable to predictably process its usual intake of alcohol. Once, I knew precisely how three, four or seven drinks would hit me.

But then I could get drunk on two, or remain stubbornly sober after drinking a bottle of wine, a near nightly habit by that point. I had no idea this was biochemical, something to do with enzymes and the pancreas and eventually the liver. All I knew was by the end of that night, despite the fact that I was such a mess, or maybe because of it, I had landed myself a new boyfriend, someone cute who drank like me, which is to say: a lot.

All my great loves were big drinkers. I wasn’t one of those alcoholics who paired up with caregivers, guys who ran underneath me with a net, or nudged me to watch it when I’d had a little too much.

I couldn’t think of anything worse than that kind of codependency. I was more about co-debauchery. My kind of guy had to keep up with me, or vice versa. When we fell for each other, we fell hard. We didn’t just move fast, we moved in. Together. Like, right away. Why wait for someone to really get to know you, because what if they really got to know you?