After a big night out, we vow never to do it again. That feeling of waking up with your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth because it’s drier than a chardonnay in a tumble weed themed desert.
Your lips are coated in that gross white film. You try to pump some form of moisture in your mouth by activating your jaw, but end up taste-testing your own breath that would undoubtedly clear a room like one of those god-awful sneaky farts that no-one owns up to. The worst thing is, is that you can’t get away from your own breath.
A groan falls out of your mouth and plops out onto your blankets (if you were lucky enough to find a bed before going into a deep comatose state). As your body wills itself to move, a cartoon drawn one ton weight pins you down and pounds on your precious brain.
It’s at that point, you decide whether you are still drunk, hung over, in limbo, or in such a state that you have no idea which one you are and are groaning like a bear that has been woken from hibernation (which probably means that you are still intoxicated).
Sometimes, the next thought is either:
a). What just happened?
b). Where am I?
c). Who is this?
d). How did I get home?
e). Where are my pants?
f). Oh crap.
g). Hmmm, I had mushrooms for dinner last night.
h). or all of the above.
If you can get up, that’s a bonus. However there is the danger of seeing your reflection in the mirror, which can send you in a state of shock and straight back to the nest. There is also the danger of having an extremely full bladder and are cast like a dead fly on the window sill, after being sprayed with Raid.
You drink truckloads of water, and then end up feeling bloated and grosser, yet you start to crave:
a). A Maccas cheeseburger
b). A whopper
c). KFC chips (with extra seasoning) and potato and gravy
e). It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s dripping with fat
f). Or, there’s no way food can possibly be digested at this point.
I’m actually writing this because it is a reflection of my past four days of either being:
a). Slightly intoxicated
b). Happy drunk
d). Stuck on a bean bag in front of the fire while watching an onslaught of the Kardashians.
On Friday night, my downfall was sharing an antipasto platter for dinner and drinking from a trophy sized vessel filled with half a bottle of wine. I can’t complain, I was wearing a dress that sucked me in at all the right places and gave me full anti-tramp coverage. Wearing a fabulous dress like that is a reason to celebrate. In the morning, I woke up with an empty bucket next to my bed, half a glass of water and memories of my flatmate helping me into my pj’s because I was clearly having issues.
On Saturday, a sloth would have made more progress than me. The biggest achievement was having a shower, which was a difficult task in itself because the walls were still moving. Greasy pizza and a DVD were prescribed.
On Sunday, I tried to kick my delayed hangover in the arse by going for a run along the beach on a perfectly awesome sunny winter’s day. I was the odd one out because you clearly had to be a couple with; a happy dog, a pushchair with a baby, or holding hands with your loved one in your seasoned years.
By the time the afternoon rocked round, I had achieved semi packing of my bags for a small road trip and cocooning my way back into my bed again. A power nap and a bag full of lollies helped perk me up. Which was much needed, because once we had reached our destination it was going to be all on again.
I was not on full form that night. Just one or two wines to tide me over, as I witnessed the spectacle of completely inebriated patrons at the local bar. One woman was dancing to her own beat with a pool cue. She was in a bubble, thinking that she was pulling some younger video ho-fessional moves, while wearing a tight tee that kept inching its way north to reveal abs that had been dining at the bakery. The wobbly guys around her avoided eye-contact because they knew that one accidental slip up would result in becoming the lionesses prey. Notes to self were clearly being etched deeply into my memory.
Monday came with a big fat sleep in, as I prepared for the final countdown. It started off at a leisurely pace by entering in the local pub quiz and having a not so sneaky wine with dinner and a random conversation about bulimic cats. It ended in giant Jenga playing competition and trying to help a young fullar fulfil his dream of hooking up with his long-term female friend.
After Friday night’s efforts and a hangover that slunk around like a bad smell, we’d learned our lesson. Hangovers are like that annoying person who lingers around after over-staying their welcome. They don’t take a hint and take a hike.
Hangovers are funny when they are happening to someone else. There’s no sympathy for someone else suffering from self-induced over-indulgence. Someone else ‘s boozy affliction just makes yourself feel like you are in fact on top of the world in your state of optimal health.
Oh how quick we are to forget, only to remember when the thing we were trying to forget or never going to do again accidently happens. Right, time to plan a party…