On Hangovers
And the road to enlightenment.
There is something miraculous about hangovers. Rarely do we subject ourselves to hedonism in the knowledge it will come back to bite us. It’s a funny thing for grown adults to wilfully poison themselves and then spend the next day wallowing in self-pity about the cosmic injustice of suffering the consequences of your own actions. Because it is a total travesty, to be an adult reduced to a withering snivelling mess, unable to stand up unsupported or leave the house without sunglasses on.
There’s the dreaded hangxiety; the clenching fear as you recall what you said to your friend’s new boyfriend, the shame that cloaks you as you become convinced that everyone thinks you’re both a moron and a bigot. You cannot think what possessed you to share your views on the political stance of Shrek (nightmare landlord) or to flirt with your ex’s younger cousin (whose age is probably best left unknown). You struggle to look at your phone to check for any evidence of your disgrace, but the screen immediately makes your entire body want to explode. No screen time for today. A necessary virtue born of many vices.
You might, of course, find yourself a participant in a group hangover, an event doubtless more enjoyable and enriching than any night before. You and your comrades in the trenches look at each other with bleary delirium. Eventually some brave soul will start making coffee for everyone, and one by one stragglers trickle into the kitchen, clutching their heads with glitter in their eyelashes. Usually there’s someone insufferably perky, who somehow escaped the clutches of a hangover through youth, hydration, or adult sensibility, but chances are they can lead the call to cooking that you’re desperately anticipating. Furtive glances are exchanged between you and a friend who are sole proprietors of information that you might ordinarily term gossip, but in the heady confusion of a group hangover feels like a matter of state secrecy.
Eventually you decide that nourishment is the only solution to your problems. It is a lack of hydration that got us here, and it is a dearth of saline that is keeping us stuck. Before your vision wave the options like a mirage: a greasy fry up, pancakes drowned in syrup, avocado and eggs with a side of virtuous kale. Whatever the outcome, you’re drowning it in salt. But as you droop over the plate before you (so eagerly ordered, such promise on the menu!), the nausea claws at you and every mouthful becomes a battle. It tastes good, you know it tastes good, your brain and your tongue can agree upon this but something in the pit of your stomach is struggling to get on board. With Herculean intent, you persevere, safe in the knowledge that you have survived this before and you shall survive it again.
There is, however, a wondrous moment of clarity that a hangover affords. Just when the final dregs of the booze-mist are lifting, the headache becomes more a dull ache than a crashing incapacity, the nausea subsides to a tolerable level: suddenly the world seems brighter. Your thoughts come swelling in from around you, all the crap and incoherence of your usually-inhibited-self abandons you, and everything is truly beautiful. Not in that slurring, dizzying drunken way that makes the streets of Kilburn beautiful because you can’t see them, but simply and utterly beautiful. Suddenly you realise how lucky you are to simply be alive; to breathe the fresh autumnal air, which saved you from total collapse just minutes prior; to watch the world go by, the dogs frolicking in leaves and mud, the runners suffering through their own volition (a hangover is always preferable).
You sit with a look of beatific bemusement on your face. Yes, you think, how wonderful it is to be alive. What a delight to fill my lungs with air and have a blood-alcohol level below 0.2. Maybe, of course, you are still drunk. No matter, you think. Just hours ago you truly believed the end of your life was nigh, and now you are sat on a park bench enjoying the small wonders of a Sunday afternoon in November. The most basic of tasks become sacred because you can do them without confusion or embarrassment, like unscrewing the cap on your water bottle or putting your sunglasses on the right way up.
There is the possibility that this enlightenment could simply be achieved through meditation and mindful living. But is suffering not the road to enlightenment? Fine, when you meditate for ten minutes you feel a certain balmy peace wash over you for a little while, but there is something profoundly humbling about the complete physical inertia of a hangover that compels you to contemplate your worthless place on the earth. Sure, mindfulness is perhaps a healthier, more economically efficient way of getting there, but there is something rather marvellous about enjoying a few too many martinis and torturing yourself to it. Martini Martyrdom, if you would. Yes, you tell yourself, I am in some senses a martyr. Was it not Jesus that turned water into wine, and now through his suffering I too am able to suffer and thus appreciate the glory of god’s creation. Simply marvellous.1
Just as you think you’re fully out of the woods, someone walks by wearing a pungent, musky cologne, and suddenly the nausea smashes into you and the possibility of a second hangover lurches forth. But no, you breathe (laboriously) and feel certain that you and your digested breakfast will survive. You heave yourself onto your feet and realise that walking is helping you, and proceed to have a nice little conversation with yourself about your appalling conduct the night before. You vow sternly never to drink again - and then rethink that promise, modifying it so that you will never drink that much again, well aware that you’ve made plans that evening which will almost certainly involve hair of the dog.
It seems somehow that all your best ideas come when you’re hungover. Vignettes of get-togethers and creative projects flood your mind in the glorious golden light of the autumnal early evening. How many of these will materialise is another thing entirely. But you realise that for now, life seems more beautiful through the glasses of a hangover. Yes, you tell yourself, I will start my magnum opus tomorrow. This hangover has probably changed my life and will become a pivotal moment in my best-selling memoir in decades to come, you muse proudly. Later, when you tumble into bed, more exhausted than you’ve ever been before, you feel safe in the knowledge that tomorrow you will awake and be blessedly hangover free.2 Perhaps it was all worth it for that sheer relief.
I’m pretty sure Buddha said something like this. Maybe not the martini part. Or the Jesus part.
I should add that I have not yet experienced the Two Day Hangover but I have heard of its wrath and live in eternal fear of its spectral shadow.
The best way to avoid a hangover is just to keep drinking.