Random Musings / The Party Life

Alcohol and Other Kryptonite for Your 30s

So, it’s come to this.  

If only my hangover hair was so 90's sweet.

If only my hangover hair was so 90’s sweet.

Here I am at 4:30 in the morning EST, sitting in the bathtub, waiting for its hollowed (hallowed) porcelain edges to rise, dumping in capfuls of Dr. Bronner’s Citrus Orange, drinking a glass of ice-water precariously over the side, coming off some Sudafed high because either my ears are congested or I’m going deaf, nursing the mother of all hangovers, asking myself: was it really worth it?

Like this but three dimensional and more sad.

Like this but three dimensional and more sad.

I don’t have an addictive personality, although Wikipedia tells me I probably have some kind of cell phone dependency problem.  But substances aren’t my main jam, just my every now and again.

Besides.  It never sounds like a good idea until I’m there, and then suddenly I’m the fucking life of the party – in my head at least.

Drinking is friendship, y'all!

Drinking is friendship, y’all!

 And that’s when one beer turns to two turns to three

to four

to five

to three am

to 4:30 am

to waking up with a start still in my black jersey Susana Monaco, thinking, yeah, I’m probably going to yack and I probably shouldn’t have downed that gallon of water so fast,

to but I did and I have to deal with those consequences

to Jesus H Christ just puke it out already

to this is never ending torture

to I’m going to suffer the rest of my life

to taking a bath seems like a good idea

to taking my laptop in the bath totally can’t go wrong

to this bath isn’t helping

to now I’m sweaty and also hung-over

to oh my god, can I please just throw up already.  

And was it worth it?  Really, really worth it?

Ten years ago, I would have said yes.  And how pathetic is it, that I – as a thirty year old – am already calling back to the better years when I was twenty, like, oh the good old days, when I was really in my prime.  But it’s not that the hangovers have gotten so much worse over the years, it’s just that I’ve lost the capability to put up with them.  A hangover at twenty?  It’ll all be over soon.  A hangover at thirty? It will all be over soon.  Like everything.  It will be over because I’m gonna die until I’m dead.

Maybe this is Mother Nature’s way of telling me to grow up already, get married, have kids, go in debt up to our scrotums for that house down the street, gain thirty pounds, and call it a life.  Give up on the party girl ways because this broke-down-ole body just can’t take it no more.

Hurray! We gave up all our hopes and dreams for this!

Hurray! We gave up all our hopes and dreams for this!

My first reaction is to say, no, fuck that.  My second reaction is to say: Yes, anything, anything at all because I will sell my soul to stop this hangover.

I want to go back to sleep but the overwhelming wave of nausea and brain pain plus the high pitched song of all the asshole morning birds outside are telling me that’s just not going to happen.

It’s 5:10am now, and I’ve gotten out of the bath, just sitting on the couch in a towel.  Ozzie is lying beside me, and he’s giving me concerned side eyes while I’ve been typing.  He knows this will not end well.  I’m considering going back to the bath tub because I feel like I’ve run out of options.

Was it worth it?  The answer is no.  But I’m going to do it anyway.


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