It looked something like this.... except with rum, instead of beer.
This part of the story would be enough to say… “Yeah, Greg – you are dumb!” And you would be right. But, it gets worse.
Rum and watermelon isn’t my usual drink of choice. And I am pretty sure it was a brand of rum I had never heard of. But I also was Lt. McWinetown before I became Capt. McRummy. So wine, then rum, and I was feeling – woo hoo!
But, don’t forget now… I said this all happened on a Sunday. I did this on a Sunday.
Yep! I had to work the next day. Now, I am sure my “legions” of readers are all 22 and can bounce back from keg stands at lunch on a Wednesday. I, however, cannot.
Monday morning came and came early. I was up at 5 a.m. Why? I have no bleepin’ clue. My wonderful body decided that I needed all of FIVE hours of sleep and I should be good to go. “Start the day!,” it bellowed into my hollow soul.
With that, I laid in bed for awhile and tried to fight that “I am incredibly awake” feeling I inexplicably had. My body almost forgotten my night of fun it seemed. So, I woke up (slowly) and made coffee. And it was the worst coffee of my life. In my marathon “rush” to get the coffee made, I must have decided to go light on grounds and heavy on water. How do I know? Well – because it tasted like the world’s prize-winning edition of coffee-based water. Scientists could marvel at how awful and weak it was. And this was on a day where I needed a coffee like my mother needs a hair dryer. (Seriously, the woman needs a hair dryer or she will ruin you. )
So, I was drinking useless coffee and trying to assess the situation and I realized suddenly … I am not feeling so good. Like, really … not … good. Not ... good.
To my credit, my stomach was incredibly unhappy with me, but it held fast. It asked for ginger ale and carbonated beverages and I supplied it. Aspirin was a novelty joke addition to the problem. The Aspirin bottle just stared and laughed at me. “Listen old man, I ain’t gonna get you out of this.” Aspirin can be a cruel bedfellow.
Ginger Ale was fortunately much nicer to me. It’s probably because only 70 year olds and I are the only people buying the brew. So, Ginger Ale knew to be kind to me to maintain our continued business relationship. (FACT: Ginger Ale is the only soda you will ever see in my fridge on a regular basis. However, find me an old timey glass bottle of root beer and I would drink it.)
Well, I digress. After taking the aspirin, it all occurred to me. I am so unbelievably old.
It’s cute to be hungover when you’re 25. It’s a badge of honor. Oh look at that crazy, young lad. He really knows how to party. But, hungover at 33 is just sad. It means you are stupid.
And your body doesn’t know what to do with it all. My body woke up and said, “Bleep you! Bleep you! Bleep you!” (My body is a huge swear word user. I, however, curse only at church or funerals.)
So, my body finally came to life TWO hours AFTER being physically awake and only then decided to start hating on me. And by hating, I mean – it decided to make me feel … headache filled. And stomach rumbly. But headache filled, above all else.
Now, have I told you I live in NYC? And have I told you I hate subways? Oh good. Well, being 33 and hungover and living in New York is the equivalent to watching the speeches at the Republican National Convention. You want to scream out loud and say, “Why, God? Why?”
The noises a subway can make. The noises a jackhammer makes on the street. The noises people talking to each other make. Can everyone SHUT UP? Nope! Because New York is allegedly the city that never sleeps. Though, having been to Las Vegas, I think there is room for argument.
For you devoted readers, you may realize that this little story is a continuation from my last blog. I had three parties in one weekend, and the toll finally occurred on Sunday.
This hangover is not to be confused with the Bradley Cooper movies. (I know. Bradley Cooper totally stole my look. It’s fine, though. I will steal his underwear in retaliation … someday.) While hangovers are unnecessary and useless, nothing comedic happened.
And I was ok, aside from some amusing texts to my friend. For the sake of the blog, we will call her Lolita. It’s a play on her name, and makes her sound like a Russian spy. At least in my head.
Lolita consoled me for my drinking mistake, my Sunday mistake, and all the mistakes I have ever made in my life. It wasn’t quite priest-level confessional, but it was two friends making each other laugh. I cried how old I was and she told me that she snort laughed out loud on her crowded bus, which comforted me immensely.
I did learn a lesson, though. I always know when to say no. Nancy Reagan taught me well. (I also style my hair and clothing from her, in addition to her love of gay male hairdressers.) But, I really should have kept being Lt. McWinetown and not “upgraded” within the ranks of the drinking army.
The bigger lesson was: maybe three parties in 1 weekend is too much. I went from zero to hero too quickly. It is better to space out the friend love, and maybe just 1 party a weekend really is my speed due to my advanced age.
I am glad I tried the experiment. For having the experience and not missing the meaning. Or whatever Mark Twain once said. I don’t think I missed the meaning, though. Not this time.
Love,
Me
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