The Hangover

Stage 1:  Arrival into consciousness.  It usually starts the same way.  I carefully peel one eye open and glance about the room.  My mouth is dry and my head feels fuzzy.  Where am I?  What day is it?  As the events of the previous night slowly filter into my brain, I am faced with a horrible realization – if what I am vaguely recalling is even remotely true, I am on the brink of (yet another) MASSIVE hangover.   

Now, I am no rookie when it comes to hangovers.  I have been suffering from these “bouts” for a solid 15 years.  Sadly, despite mass amounts of internet research, urban folklore, and the advice my trusted nurse friend, I have yet to find the secret formula for avoiding the 8 to 12 hours of sheer hell and torture that I face the day after the party.

Stage 2:  Departing the bed.  This is an especially tricky and painful part of the hangover process.  I find the difficulty lies in adjusting one’s head from a vertical to a horizontal position.  A quick move can accelerate the hangover process rapidly.  Accordingly, I make every effort to keep my head tilted to the side as I rise from the bed in search of the bathroom. 

Stage 3:  The bathroom. There are a number of disturbing things that tend to occur here.  The first is usually the realization that I am still wearing the previous night’s outfit or portions thereof.  Occasionally, this outfit is decorated with bits of vomit, food and/or drink.  The alternative to this is much, much worse – I am naked.  Now this – this is a truly terrible sight to behold first thing in the morning, beneath florescent lighting.  I am naked, with squinty eyes and terrible posture (see Stage 2 – my head is still tilted to the side).  All in all, this is very bad scene.  Occasionally, I have awoke to find myself dressed in some bizarre contraption that my husband obviously mistook for pyjamas the night before.  Believe it or not, I once woke up in a stuffed bikini top and nothing else.  Concerning.  I know.

Once my eyes have adjusted to the light and my “morning outfit”, I risk a glance at my face.  Yup.  Make-up still on, but shifted slightly down and to the right.  I look like a two bit hooker whose head has been run over by a mac truck.  The hair doesn’t help.  It would seem the previous night’s hairspray is working overtime.  You don’t know the meaning of “extreme hold” until you’ve seen my morning after hair.

Once the necessary toilet items are dealt with (no need to go into any detail here), I turn to the teeth.  It feels as though I have been chewing on moth ball all night.  Two rounds of brushing minimum.  Three if brushing induces vomiting.

Stage 4:  The replay.  Although it is only 7:30 a.m., my unrelenting headache and waves of nausea make it impossible for me to return to bed.  Instead, I lay on the couch, willing myself to drink water, while trying to piece together the events of the previous evening.  With each realization, the pain gets worse.  Spit on boss (shit), grabbed strange man’s bum (fuck), threw up in cab (dear God), did sexual grindy type dance with co-worker (please kill me now). 

Stage 5:  Try and consume food.  Despite consuming mass amounts of food the night before, I am famished.  Unfortunately, my massive headache and waves of nausea make it difficult to prepare much more than toast.  After slowly gumming a piece of dry toast, I run to the bathroom, where I proceed to dry heave for several minutes and eventually dissolve into tears at the misery that is me.

Stage 6:  Back to bed.  The failed attempt at food consumption confirms that I am not fit to be conscious.  I return to bed, where I lay for the next two hours, writhing in pain and burping.

Stage 7:  Guilt.  It is now 2:00 in the afternoon and I am once again awake.  The headache has diminished somewhat, but I remain mentally foggy and on the verge of puking.  With the headache gone, there is now room in my brain for the guilt that inevitably follows making an ass of myself after consuming too much liquor while in the company of others. I vow to never drink again and am purchasing a gym membership tomorrow!  I will recycle more, eat less and intend to drink nothing but nature’s beverage – water.   Am feeling so good, I might even donate money to a local charitable organization like AA (but don’t actually feel it’s necessary to attend a meeting – it’s not like I have “drinking problem”).

Stage 8:  Dirty food.  The guilt has once again become overwhelming and I am now in search of comfort.  Ahhhhhh.  There is nothing so comforting as a dirty burger.  Top option - White Spot cheese burger with double triple O sauce, french fries and a coke.  Oh my, yes!  This is exactly what I need to make me feel physically and mentally better.  Although I appreciate the calorie consumption is somewhat high (ie. approximately 3 days worth), I am convinced the previous night’s dance moves burned a week’s worth of calories.  At least!

Stage 9:  More guilt.  Approximately 15 minutes after consuming the dirty burger, the guilt is actually crippling.  Not only have I gone and made an ass of myself (once again), but I am a pig too.  Who eats like this?!  I am gross.

Stage 10:  Recovery.  By 7:00 p.m., I have returned to my normal sense of self and the guilt is somewhat more manageable.  I politely decline wine with dinner and feel very keen to ensure a healthy, veggie laden dinner is consumed.  I vow to exercise the next day and promise myself I will not drink at the office Christmas party this year.  Sadly, the look on my husband’s face suggests I have made these vows more than once . . .