127 Hours: A Hangover Story

Dear Tina,

As we get older, we inevitably learn from our past mistakes. Glitter nail polish is almost impossible to remove so why bother, fat free cheese does not help you lose weight but it does give you horrific stomach cramps, and purchasing a garment with the notion that it will fit perfectly once you lose five pounds, practically guarantees that said garment will hang in your closet for eight months until you realize that day is never coming and you offer it to your more slender friend.

We are less inhibited as we get older–at least we should be. We don’t worry so much about what our dance moves look like when out with our girlfriends, because good or bad, they are guaranteed to attract the kind of man whose name we won’t and shouldn’t remember. We wear what flatters our figures and reflects our taste and not what exposes the most skin for the cheapest price. We even begin to troll for temporary and life partners in appropriate settings (meaning before 1 am and while our vision is still fully alert).

What a nice idea, mental growth increasing at the same rate as physical growth. What doctors and our parents always yearned for. I was on the right track myself. Sometimes, when feeling really encouraged by my 24 years on Earth, I would even make myself a salad for dinner. However, life took a turn for the worst Saturday, February 12. I attended a surprise birthday for a friend of mine and I was eager to get the party started as I was surrounded by many a friend I hadn’t seen in awhile. I had a personal theory that “socializing” with only wine would be cause for future problems as it always leads to the worst hangovers and the most slurred “s” words. So brilliant me, decided to create a rotation: wine beer wine beer wine beer wine. Beer. And that was before we left the house. I don’t need to get into dirty details but lets say once I was released into the wild, vodka and tequila followed. I’m not proud of my choice. It lacked maturity and foresight, two things I pride myself on when I am in the state of mind that allows me to repeat my phone number without stopping to think about it. But it happened.

The next day, I went through the seven stages of Hangover.

1. Denial: I don’t feel bad! This is funny! And fun! Remember all those funny and fun things we did last night? (Symptoms: blood alcohol level is likely still at an over-the-limit percentage)

2. Pain and Guilt: Extreme nausea. The kind of nausea that when asked to sit in a Buffalo Wild Wings for an entire college basketball game (as I was), the only thing that can slightly relieve your pain is envisioning what a bed with a pillow must feel like right about now. Also, guilt. Guilting the others for feeling well enough to eat, even something as bland as tortilla chips.

3. Anger and bargaining: Anger toward the doofuses who appeared to not only be enjoying the game they were watching, but also the alcoholic beverages they were consuming. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? Bargaining with my own body, a promise to my stomach that if it manages to keep all of its insides on the inside, I will reward it with a nap and a chicken nugget. Which sounded really good at the time.

4. Depression, reflection and loneliness: The depression came shortly after I went through a McDonalds drive-thru for some chick nuggs and fries, and realized that the consumption of only half a nugget was going to cause a mild erruption from my mouth. Epic fail. Reflection in my curiosity for what exactly took place the night before. I was told something about my dance moves. I can only imagine what they looked like based on what I normally keep tucked away in my arsenal. And loneliness. Because after I sobered up at Buffalo Wild Wings, I drove myself to my bf’s home accepting the fact that as soon as I arrived I would need him to remain at least ten feet away from me in order to have the mental capacity to maintain my basic bodily functions. As my father used to say when he came home from work on exceptionally hot summer days, “it’s too hot to touch.”

5. The Upward Turn: Well for me, in my normal experiences with bottle flu, this comes after a nice long nap. In this instance, it came on Thursday. So….if we want to look at this positively, yes I began to see the light. After having to spend Valentine’s Day alone, due to my illness, and get reaquainted with a lifestyle that requires 12-16 hours in bed or on the couch (that part wasn’t so hard), the upward turn came when I realized this hangover may have turned into another problem.

6. Reconstruction and working through: After being treated to a wonderful make-up Valentine’s Day at a local Mexican restaurant, and feeling the urge to vomit after one bite of a chicken taco, I thought it time to take my life back and conquer this thing for good. Medicine was taken. I can’t get into specifics. But after five days of channeling Linda Blair, I believe my body was released of its toxins.

7. Acceptance and Hope: Since the dreaded night of February 12, I have returned to good old sensible me, consuming enough “socializing” to validate a hot dog at 3 am, but not so much that I don’t floss before bed (true story).

So what is the lesson here? I don’t know. If you want to take a shot, try not to make it two, and try not to make it straight tequila followed by  straight vodka, preceded by vats and vats of that which is not liver-approved. I did venture out of the house this past Saturday night. We went to a bar filled with 21 year olds and “21 year olds.” I felt like their babysitter. It was cute to see them self-conciously lipsynching to Ke$ha and, even worse, Ludacris. But I certainly wasn’t nostalgic for my college days when I, as on this night, used a bathroom covered in broken glass, toliet paper, and a variety of unidentified liquids. Nor the days when I would not have learned my lesson from the weekend prior. I kept myself at a three drink minimum once at the bar: liver and wallet friendly!

In truth, going out and celebrating with alcohol can be a great time; it is, afterall, designed that way for us level-headed adults. But too much of a good thing is, well, a bad thing. After all, I’m not the type of person who needs to drink to come out of my shell. Moving forward, as I grow from my past mistake, the key will be to refrain from drinking so much that people wished they had a shell to contain my overly enthusiastic gesticulations. Best of luck on your future endeavors.

30 Rock Quote of the Day:

Liz: That would only be a problem if I had any flaws.
Jack: Not only is your fly open, but there’s a pencil sticking out of it.