My head throbbing with pain, I open my eyes ever-so-slightly, but the light—that harsh light of day, streaming through my bedroom window—is too painful for me to handle. There is no way that drinking can be worth this discomfort and exhaustion, I think. Only a few hours after drinking, the physical hangover has already brought me to my knees. At times like these, it’s difficult to remember why I even drink—to be perfectly honest, it’s pretty difficult to remember anything at all. But the headache and nausea is not what I’m dreading, it’s what follows soon after.
Once I begin to remember things I said or did the night before I feel, in the words of Kingsley Amis, “that ineffable compound of depression, sadness (these two are not the same), anxiety, self-hatred, sense of failure, and fear of the future,” or what he terms the “metaphysical hangover,” come over me. The “metaphysical hangover” makes me consider that I should not be allowed to drink if I plan on ever talking to my friends and family again. (I’ve strongly considered becoming a hermit and avoiding all human contact for the rest of my life.)
Mike Royko, a former columnist for the Chicago Daily News, had some very simple advice for dealing with the metaphysical hangover. “Blot from your mind all memories of what you later did to your host’s rug, what you said to that lady with prominent cleavage that made her scream, whether you or her husband threw the first punch,” he wrote. “Don’t dredge up those vague recollections of being asleep in your host’s bathtub while everybody pleaded with you to unlock the bathroom door.”
I can’t say that I have ever had much luck preventing the ball of shame and regret from forming in my gut. Usually when the depression hits it is time to move from my bed to the living room couch. Though I always do it, it’s usually a poor choice—half-filled beer cans and Solo cups sit on every flat surface throughout the kitchen and living room. The smell of stale, flat beer fills the room and attacks my sensitive stomach—I have to close my eyes and steady my nerves. On more than one occasion, I have considered dabbing Vick’s Vapor Rub under my nostrils, similar to what cops and medical examiners do when they need to examine a badly decomposed body, just to be able walk into my living room without vomiting. The attack on my senses provides a temporary respite from the shame. It returns soon enough.
The best remedy that I have found for that regrettable dance-floor makeout is to focus on my physical ailments. From my nest on the couch, I try and work up enough resolve to eat something, but that rarely ever works. Looking over at the fridge, I notice the quarter-filled bottle of Burnett’s Citrus Vodka laughing at me, mocking me for the night before. The memory of all the shots begins to come back to me, and I try to figure out how to get to the bathroom without vomiting on the floor. (norvado.com) For several minutes, my mind is free.
Cleaning up, as the apartment begins to become inhabitable again, other memories of the night start flooding back. The poorly thought out things I said and the disastrous move-in for a kiss begin to recede from my mind. The memories become more positive; the four-game beer pong winning streak, shotgunning beers in the kitchen, and the shirtless dance party that was raging until Department of Public Safety officers came by to shut it down. I can’t wait for it to happen again, as I run to the bathroom to dry heave for a few minutes.
Regret your interaction with Dan at dnewman@georgetownvoice.com.
