I was never really a party animal, but in my early 20s, I would fall into the same trap with every high-powered business trip. When we visited that temporary staffing company in Dallas, I overindulged on black martinis and was oh-so-thankful for the noon start time of the meeting. In New York for the billion-dollar hospital deal, I remember dimly sleeping a few hours after a bottle of amazing French white wine and a few pints of Guinness. In San Diego, it was Scotch; in Cleveland, margaritas. Every time I promised to never drink so much again.

The best cure for a hangover? Don't drink too much to begin with.

Now I'm 32, and a mama. I'm over all that. Right? Umm, not so much. Last week I was in New York for a staff meeting and my boss took us out for Korean barbecue Friday night. I drank Asahi, and lots of creamy sweet sake. Next it was a rooftop bar and Courvoisier (hey, I don't get out much) and the ill-fated bottle of Patron tequila that seemed like such a good idea at the time.

My flight was at 6 a.m. the next morning. No. Oh, no.