recovery

It's been a couple of days and I think I'm ready to talk about my self-inflicted, extremely painful hangover. We've all been there haven't we? It starts out so innocently. A work sponsored drinking function, gone totally awry when the champagne, the shots and the shitty, inedible food refuse to mix.

See the problem is, during a different time in my life, I went out drinking quite a bit more than I do now. I was also younger, obviously, and had a constitution such that I could drink whatever I wanted in large quantities and you couldn't have taken me out with a dozen mack trucks. I'm not bragging here, that's just how it was. But those days were a long time ago, and my drinking frequency has dropped off by about 80% since then. This presents a problem when I decide I'm going to drink in a non-strategic way, now. These days, I have to adhere to a couple of strict formulas in order to avoid the wretched hangovers and stress of lost property.

Generally, before I even leave the house, I lay out a cocktail of vitamins for when I come back. I've done careful research and the formula for replenishing lost nutrients and avoiding a hangover works well, provided I get a halfway decent amount of sleep. I also am careful to stick to one type of alcohol for the night, which also helps, due to my ripening age and liver. Lastly, in times of stress, when I really feel like I need a drink, I will budget myself and take only the cash I can spend on drinks. These nights I will also not take a credit card, so that I can avoid any open tab trouble. Seems like a good plan, right?

So here's what happens when I go out with work people, on a stomach that has been empty for upwards of 10 hours and the food we are to consume is disgusting. We start with a glass of wine, which incidentally, is the only thing in the restaurant that was any good. The wine is tasty and the first glass gives me a happy little buzz, due to my empty stomach. The menu looks tasty, so we all make our selections, eagerly anticipating a delectable experience. When the food arrives, however, we realize that this nights meal will fall far short of even the most forgiving expectations.

During this time, the bottomless wine continued to come; a clever ploy by the restaurant to make us think we are actually dining well, I assume. My glass never saw emptiness, so I had no idea exactly how much wine I had consumed. This was compounded by the fact that my water glass was empty for most of the night. Flash forward about 2 hours and a collection of my comrades and I head out to a friendly watering hole, frequented by one of us.

This is the part where it all starts to go wrong.

We merrily downed pints and glasses, talk story and told our tales of woe about our workplace and the booming knuckleheads to which we are subjected. Time passed and people started to think about the impending workday and with well-timed yawns, they exited the bar. But not me. Noooo, not me. I had made friends with strangers. Nice people of whom I now have zero recollection. Apparently, I was witty and clever (no surprise there) and kept the group laughing, long after my last co-worker had made his exhausted exit.

And then, for reasons I still cannot fathom, I simply walked out of the bar. No explanation, no looking back. In 34 degree weather, I walked out, sans coat, purse, keys and wallet and began to drunkenly meander my way back home. I did have some phone contact during this time, which was understandably the most frustrating and annoying experience of the other person's year. I trudged over a mile and a half home, in the freezing cold, only to realize that when I came upon my apartment, I had no way in. And so there I sat, for another 30 minutes, buzzing the super over and over and over, determined to wake him from his restful sleep and drag him into my miserable state, so that I could get into my apartment to pass out. And pass out, I did.

I awoke the next morning bright and somewhat chipper. I was on time for work and just fine through the morning as my co-workers streamed past me, throwing mocking, knowing glances in my direction. I was even coherent enough to have a sensitive discussion with a high level executive at a venture capital firm. So proud of me, was I. But then, then somewhere around 2pm, it all came crashing down. The hangover I had staved off all morning attacked me with a vengeance and I found myself trying to hide in the bathroom between bouts of dry heaving and vomiting, hoping that no one would notice my plight. But really, how could they not?

By the time I made my way out of my workplace, I was armed with a plan and an overwhelming desire to be in the fetal position for several hours. Never again, I vowed. No exceptions, no deviations. It's the formula or nothing from now on. Famous last words, right? I'm not the only person to have endured this kind of pain. I'm also not the only one stupid enough to not take the day off and convalesce in peace and relative comfort. I can tell you this though, if I can make a good impression while green and nauseous, I'm a much better actress than I thought I was.

Take a lesson here, friends, because the next time, I'm sure I won't be so lucky to not only make it home in one piece, but to get my stuff back as well. But the question now is, do I start drinking more to avoid this scenario? Isn't "training" the way to become good at all things?