What Does A Hangover Feel Like?

I realize that my blog has been a little depressing to read lately and I apologize. I felt the need to redeem myself. So I thought I would write about something I enjoy and . . . I bet you do too. No. Not that. The other thing. Drinking.

I have a diverse group of friends. One of these friends who, at the time, had never experienced the joyful "day that follows a night of drinking", once asked me the following question:

"What does a hangover feel like?"

After almost choking on my drink, I composed myself and put on my "drinking cap" (it has straws, you know, for tailgating), cleared my throat, and said:

Well, my dear . . . There are two kinds of hangover. The mild one (which is annoying) and then there's the horrible-i-am-never-ever-drinking-again-in-my-whole-lifetime hangover. Which is sometimes paired with, "Who the hell is this person in my bed?"or in my case, "Who's cat is this?"--I once awoke to a feral looking, orange cat staring at me from 2 inches away. I was at a friend's house. I knew what her cat looked like and it was not orange and did not possibly have rabies.

Anyway, the The Horrible Hangover, or THH (my fellow blogger radiogael has me hooked on acronyms), should really only be reserved for certain occasions in one's lifetime e.g., the age in which one is legally allowed to drink, post-breakup, milestone birthdays, New Year's . . . Christmas, Easter, pretty much anytime I visit my family . . . wait, maybe those last few are just me.

THH involves all of the symptoms mentioned below plus, gut wrenching vomiting, "the spins" and what I like to refer to as "an entire day of my life completely wasted between the bathroom and the bedroom" as I am not functional until about four in the afternoon.

The milder case is a more frequent occurrence {{I knoow hhhhhow to hhandle my liquoooooor nooooow, damn it.}} Here's how that one feels:

You stumble into your house, or a friend's house, or wherever between the hours of 3am - 6am after eating a light meal, e.g., a Taco Bell value meal, pizza, or anything homemade containing cheese. You fall asleep in the recliner in your living room (much like an 80 year old man) or in your bed--your choice. I prefer my comfy, ugly-ass, orange recliner, but to each his own.

When you wake up the first time, you get the sneaking suspicion that you are still intoxicated and did I mention that THERE ARE 14 FREIGHT TRAINS INSIDE YOUR HEAD. Choo fu*cking Choo. It's time for ibuprofen and water. Lots of water. Oh wait, not too much . . . at this point, it's all about balance, and keeping the contents of your stomach in your stomach. Because once you throw up, you're in THH territory and there ain't no going back. Then it's back to sleep(?) for what feels like 2.2 seconds until . . .

. . . your alarm goes off, ten octaves higher than normal, tuned to the one radio station in a four state radius that is blaring the chorus to "Don't Stop Believin'" by that ass-clown Steve Perry of Journey. Argh. You cannot function, will not function . . . *groan* must function.

Even coffee smells horrible (if coffee isn't your morning thing, please insert beverage of your choice). If you have to wake up and go to work (like SOMEONE did this morning) you milk every remaining second you have inside the comfort of your house, until you have to face other people, and THE BLARING, BRIGHTEST LIGHT OF ALL TIME: THE SUN. Hat. Check. Ibuprofen. Check. Blue Blockers. Check.

You eat nothing due to the sensitive state of your stomach. Plus, you aren't even hungry because of that giant meal you prepared yourself last night--which is evident by the state of emergency that your kitchen is in this morning. Sober me to drunk me: Milk goes in the refrigerator, not the cupboard.

You'll soon realize everything you say today makes no sense at all. You'll also probably offend someone. Prepare for this. Do not attempt math, especially if you are calculating someones rent at your job--even if you have an accounting calculator with the cool tape that prints out the answers like a mini typewriter. (I heart this calculator, in case you didn't notice.)

These symptoms should wear off by at least 5pm, which is just in time for happy hour! Because somehow, (much like how women describe the pain of childbirth) you completely forget any of the aforementioned painful symptoms. The bartender serves another round, which you love unconditionally despite the pain it may bring the next day.

Cheers,
Nik