I look back at being 18-19 years old in amazement at how I could roll in (sometimes literally) from a night out or house party at 3am, wake up at 8am and eat a slice of dry toast, then do a shift at Sainsbury’s and somehow survive. At the age of 26, a night out is a rare occurrence because staying in and snuggling up is so much more appealing to me and I have become a generally boring person. So, when I do go out and get drunk I nearly have to be hospitalised the following day. Last weekend, for example, after a night out on Saturday night, Sunday was a complete write-off, I was on the brink of tears and I went into work on Monday morning still feeling like a zombie. It was definitely amongst my top five worst ever hangovers (number one was a few years ago and required sunglasses all day. See below ridiculous pic).
You wake up in your own bed but still don’t understand where the hell you are or how you got there.
Events from the previous night are slowly coming back to you and you’re cringing. You text your friends for the morning de-brief and you’re reminded of what you said/did which causes you to make a noise that sounds like ‘uhhhhhhhh’. You feel rough but not too bad, so you get up.
You don’t feel bad, you feel terrible. You need food and coke, preferably McDonald’s, but even the thought is making you want to be sick and die.
Nap. Wake up. Feel worse. Head pounding. You text your friends again to tell them you can’t cope and that you’re never going out drinking again. You look to your boyfriend for sympathy but its self inflicted, apparently.
Hours have passed and food is definitely needed. The takeaways have finally opened. Figuring out whether you want a pizza or a Chinese becomes one of the biggest life decisions you have ever made. The food helps, and by about 8pm you’re starting to recuperate.
Your bed is your best friend. You just managed to survive the day.