The Smell of Liver Failure in the Morning
Saturday mornings are usually my favorite time of the week. I like to get up early-ish. And by that I mean early enough to enjoy the morning - have coffee, eat breakfast, write a little, and maybe go for a walk or to the gym before the day really gets going. I love to look out on the horizon and see the weekend stretch out before me, full of possibilities and absolutely no work. This Saturday morning, however, things didn't go as planned. It's now well past 11:30 and I am content to lay in the quiet, near darkness of my bedroom. I woke up (the first time) at 6:30. Early-ish, yes, but I was in no mood to enjoy the morning. My head pounded, my vision was blurry, even with my glasses, and my stomach was doing wing-wings. Ah, the distinctive smell of liver failure in the morning.
I drove home as planned before 7:00 because I had to take my rooommate to work. I didn't end up fulfilling my end of that deal. I gave her the keys to my truck and crawled back into bed. I think I must have fallen asleep because my phone vibrated and woke me up (drooling on my pillow) at 7:35. I sat up, felt the banging in my head, looked at the text message, replied somewhat incoherently, and turned the phone to silent. Ah, sleep. Not so much. Every noise, every movement, every everything grated on me. Footsteps, people talking, children crying, sunlight. I finally got up around 9:00, made a bagel, and grabbed a bottle of blue Gatorade from the fridge. I felt decent for about three minutes before I knew I had to lay down again. I nibbled on the bagel and sipped Gatorade for about an hour before trying vertical again. I made it long enough to take a shower before deciding that quiet, near darkness was still very much needed. And so here I sit/lay in the semi-darkness writing this with my head still pounding and my stomach doing wing-wings.
I may have gotten carded buying alcohol yesterday, but I promise you that I suffer from hangovers like the forty-one year old that I am. Not much changed for me after forty (I still have a young face, or so said the guy at the liquor store yesterday after he looked at my I.D. twice to be sure I was really me) except the way I experience hangovers. Maybe I've become a pussy in my old age, but now when I get a hangover, I get a HANGOVER. Usually they last the better part of the day (though this one seems to be coming along nicely and might actually end before nightfall) and I can do little more than lay in bed wishing I could feel my hands and praying that someone would bring me Gatorade. For the record, I don't get hangovers very often. I'm careful and I know my tolerance for alcohol. I know how drunk is drunk enough and I generally gauge it pretty well.
Unless I start doing shots. Which I did last night. After drinking nearly a fifth of sweet tea vodka. I should have known when I took that first shot (a Vegas Bomb - Don't ask me what's in it. I don't think my stomach or my liver could handle knowing right now. I may look it up when we're all feeling a little bit better) that I'd be sacrificing my Saturday morning. However, at midnight after hours of drinking, I wasn't thinking clearly enough, nor was I in the mood to worry about it. A shot was in front of me and I was going to drink it. Then another shot was in front of me, a Red Headed Slut this time, and I drank it. Rememeber, I'm not one to pass up a shot, even though I know I know better. Shots equal hangovers for me, especially now after forty. But, damn, I love 'you call its'. At the time. The morning after I swear I'll never do it again. Or at the very least never do a shot with the word 'Bomb' in the title.
Yes, I should have known my Saturday morning was going to suck. All those alcohols swirled together? Definitely not smart. And now I've already sacrificed fifteen minutes of my Saturday afternoon. Ugh. It always sounds like fun until I wake up and realize I've completely fucked my day. I work hard all week and need to enjoy my days off. Of course, I really enjoyed last night, so I guess it's ok. And I'm sure I'll feel better enough in a few hours. For now, though, it's quiet, near darkness and maybe some more Gatorade. Someone please remind me to never do this again.
I drove home as planned before 7:00 because I had to take my rooommate to work. I didn't end up fulfilling my end of that deal. I gave her the keys to my truck and crawled back into bed. I think I must have fallen asleep because my phone vibrated and woke me up (drooling on my pillow) at 7:35. I sat up, felt the banging in my head, looked at the text message, replied somewhat incoherently, and turned the phone to silent. Ah, sleep. Not so much. Every noise, every movement, every everything grated on me. Footsteps, people talking, children crying, sunlight. I finally got up around 9:00, made a bagel, and grabbed a bottle of blue Gatorade from the fridge. I felt decent for about three minutes before I knew I had to lay down again. I nibbled on the bagel and sipped Gatorade for about an hour before trying vertical again. I made it long enough to take a shower before deciding that quiet, near darkness was still very much needed. And so here I sit/lay in the semi-darkness writing this with my head still pounding and my stomach doing wing-wings.
I may have gotten carded buying alcohol yesterday, but I promise you that I suffer from hangovers like the forty-one year old that I am. Not much changed for me after forty (I still have a young face, or so said the guy at the liquor store yesterday after he looked at my I.D. twice to be sure I was really me) except the way I experience hangovers. Maybe I've become a pussy in my old age, but now when I get a hangover, I get a HANGOVER. Usually they last the better part of the day (though this one seems to be coming along nicely and might actually end before nightfall) and I can do little more than lay in bed wishing I could feel my hands and praying that someone would bring me Gatorade. For the record, I don't get hangovers very often. I'm careful and I know my tolerance for alcohol. I know how drunk is drunk enough and I generally gauge it pretty well.
Unless I start doing shots. Which I did last night. After drinking nearly a fifth of sweet tea vodka. I should have known when I took that first shot (a Vegas Bomb - Don't ask me what's in it. I don't think my stomach or my liver could handle knowing right now. I may look it up when we're all feeling a little bit better) that I'd be sacrificing my Saturday morning. However, at midnight after hours of drinking, I wasn't thinking clearly enough, nor was I in the mood to worry about it. A shot was in front of me and I was going to drink it. Then another shot was in front of me, a Red Headed Slut this time, and I drank it. Rememeber, I'm not one to pass up a shot, even though I know I know better. Shots equal hangovers for me, especially now after forty. But, damn, I love 'you call its'. At the time. The morning after I swear I'll never do it again. Or at the very least never do a shot with the word 'Bomb' in the title.
Yes, I should have known my Saturday morning was going to suck. All those alcohols swirled together? Definitely not smart. And now I've already sacrificed fifteen minutes of my Saturday afternoon. Ugh. It always sounds like fun until I wake up and realize I've completely fucked my day. I work hard all week and need to enjoy my days off. Of course, I really enjoyed last night, so I guess it's ok. And I'm sure I'll feel better enough in a few hours. For now, though, it's quiet, near darkness and maybe some more Gatorade. Someone please remind me to never do this again.
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