What a difference a week makes!

Definitely laid off the sauce this week. After last week's bout with the mayor of Margaritaville, I decided to take it easy -- giving myself a chance to catch up, physically, and to take care of my body a bit better than I have been these past few weeks.

The result:  I feel great. Well-rested and able to multi-task again. I've found that the more run-down I get, the harder it is to do three things at once. And no, updating my Facebook status isn't one of those three things (that's a given).

Gone are the Dark Circles of Death below my eyes. Finished are the blank stares I give people when I catch myself momentarily falling asleep. Back to the stretching in the morning and the long walks after work. It all feels so good.

Coming off a holiday week like Easter and Passover means many an entertaining story about the family. One disturbing part about Passover this year was watching my mom's hands negotiate everything she tried to lift/carry. Right down to the "seder plate" (a traditional plate, beautifully decorated to hold a shank bone) -- which she nearly dropped because her hands couldn't hold it upright.

This concerned me for two reasons:  because I have dibs on that really cool seder plate one day. But, more importantly, because it's sad when you see someone you love who has trouble doing everyday things -- like holding a plate.

The family rallied around her and kept my future seder plate safe. I jumped up to help her, as I always do, but I couldn't help but pause to reflect.

I can't imagine painting Easter eggs would have been any easier for her.

This weekend, I'll admit, I was a bit hungover. Saturday night -- deemed "Margarita Night" by the gang -- went late and loud. As little Dorothy said to Toto, "We're not in Kansas anymore," -- so I said to my body: "I'm not a kid anymore."

This was (painfully) obvious in the aftermath of my more-alcohol-than-water experience.

Anyone can kick a hangover. It requires a little bit of Gatorade, lots of water and some seriously greasy food (these are the things you pick up in college...).

The problem -- as I experienced firsthand for the first time in a long time -- is that the body (especially one with arthritis) suffers as a whole. I felt as though I was beat up with a baseball bat, thrown down a flight of steps, kicked in the groin and made to sit through the entire movie Gigli -- all at once. It was horrific!

I am never going to do that to my body again. I really felt like I abused myself (though at the time it felt quite the opposite), and the consequences have become too dire. Advil helps the headache, but even two days later I still feel sore in my hips, weak in the knees and creaky in the fingers.

Has it really come to this? Is it true that margarita is Spanish for "entire week of pain"?