I’m 37 now. Not old, not young — just somewhere solidly in the middle.

At some point in your 30s, your body starts sending subtle memos. Mine said: “Hey buddy, just a heads up — your tolerance has retired early, and hangovers now last two business days.

I listened to those memos. And as of Late, I don’t drink as much as I used to.

To be clear, I’m not stone-cold sober. I haven’t sworn off alcohol entirely. I still enjoy the occasional drink — a whiskey at a wedding, a beer during a game.

But the days of late-night bar hops, rounds of shots just because it’s Friday, or cracking open beers to “take the edge off” after a regular Tuesday?

That chapter’s closed.

I didn’t make a public declaration or hold a ceremony. I just quietly downgraded from “party guy” to “guy who actually enjoys being conscious on weekends.”

Still, I didn’t expect the reactions — the confusion, the concern, the occasional awkward silence after I ask for a water instead of a beer.

I get it. Drinking is tied to celebration, to connection, to rituals we’ve built over years. But sometimes, a person just wants to enjoy a good time without the full-body hangover that comes with it. Sometimes it’s nice to wake up feeling… functional.

Let me be clear: I’m still fun. I still go out. I still laugh at your stories, even if I’ve heard them one thousand times. The only difference is that now, when the night ends, I remember it. And I wake up with my dignity intact and my wife not wanting to kill me for acting like a complete imbecile— which, honestly, should qualify as character development.

So if you see me holding a cup of something suspiciously clear and ice-cold, don’t panic. I’m still here. I just won’t be doing cartwheels on any lawns at 1 a.m. anymore.

Probably.

-Matt Webb