There can never be a hangover day when you don’t consider how much better life would be without alcohol. I wasted my Sunday because of a good night out on Saturday. Saturday night would have been just as good if I’d drunk half as much, spent half as much and felt like going out for the day on Sunday, as was the plan.
I awoke yesterday feeling unexpectedly fine but I just knew that a hangover was imminent. Sure enough, by about 11.30 I felt wretched and tired. No nausea and no headache (though I had taken a couple of paracetamol in anticipation) though. Bar a walk to a local café for lunch and a walk later, I stayed in and felt the weight of a sad face and the knowledge that I was frittering away a precious day off.
I was alcohol chirpy after half a bottle of bubbly before going out. If I’d just topped up the bubbles in moderation, maybe another glass or two, all would have been great today. I wasn’t even dreadfully drunk, I just drank too much.
Anyway, enough with the melancholy. I think the worst part of having a hangover is knowing that you’ve wasted a day, though if you feel really rough, that’s probably the worst part of it on the day. On day two, the wasted day element is more pronounced perhaps. I think I felt so sorry for myself yesterday because it’s the first hangover day I’ve had in ages and I felt an overriding feeling of disappointment in myself for having knocked back the prosecco and cocktails with such enthusiasm when at least a pint of water in between would have done me wonders.
I know it can be fun being a bit tipsy and it’s great how you lose your inhibitions and gain confidence (though there is a fine line before you cross into over-confidence annoyance!) but really, as I’ve ranted before, one good night at the price of one whole day is just too much.
For me, and probably most others who went to university or worked straight after school, these were the drinking years. In a bizarre way, I suppose the socialising and experimenting with excess are a way of rebelling against the more regimented lifestyle associated with school, the beginning of freedom, of adulthood. I nursed many a hangover and I didn’t usually care about weekend daytime spent flopped out after a heroic night of drinking/recharging the liver for the next night of excessive alcohol consumption. But once you start working five days a week and suddenly you’re paying your own way for things, perspectives change. And fortunately, your body slowly starts to be less forgiving and hangovers get worse and tolerance reduces.
I suppose I am writing this having felt sorry for myself yesterday. There’s no point saying I am not going to drink again because I will. I wish I didn’t enjoy both the taste and the buzz of alcohol because I would love to want to give up. I have given up trying hangover cures – though I have a vague recollection that boiling banana skins and drinking the water, despite tasting foul (punishment, as I saw it), worked quite well – I now believe I should just ride the storm with misery/a headache/post-booze tiredness as the price to pay for my excess. I guess this being my first hangover day for a while will be enough to warn me off the “oh, just one more” drink next time I’m out, and maybe for another few months. It was probably the Lemon Meringue Pie cocktail that did me in on Saturday night! Next weekend, I shall be unhungover and do lots of lively and exciting things to make up for yesterday!
greenbottletree 