Love may be the oldest malady of the world but if we are talking about consistency, I would vote for ‘Hangover’, the “wrath of grapes”. As one of the foremost drunks of my time, I have an ironclad post-party regime of gulping down gallons of water before I pass out. This allows me to wake up the next day like Emma Stone from La La Land instead of Emma Stone from Cruella. But like every Olympic archer, there is always that one day where you miss, the one day when it really mattered.
It happened to me last week. Being cursed with a high capacity translates not only into a huge bill but also a reckless disregard for the number of empty glasses on my table. A few drunk dials ahead, I returned to my room, and then passed out like a corpse. The three bottles of water by my bed shook their heads in dismay.
The next day, I woke up and walked out of my room, an edge to my ‘grace’, like a panther with a headache. I take my time to confirm whether I am hungover, or just hungry/dead. Unfortunately, it was the former. As the Danes call it, I had “carpenters working overtime in my forehead”. Or if you prefer the Poles, I experienced a “howling of kittens”. Whatever your choice of phrasing, the conclusion was long foregone- I had the Wine Flu, and would spend the rest of the day like a broken spider-crab. The cure was simple: All I had to do was avoid Light like a plague, and vow to never move my eyeballs again.
But that was just the physical aspect of it.
Sometimes….hangovers have an emotional aspect. The metaphysical hangover, if you will. It is strange. It is as if the way alcohol lowers inhibitions and allows you to open wide the doors of debauchery, a hangover loosens the bolts on the cellar-door you had kept tightly sealed. Depression, sadness, sense of failure, anxiety and fear of the future spreads like a shadow. The hollowness steals over you. It makes you question your decision to be alone (instead of my choice of word i.e. single). You wonder why did you quit a well paying job. You ponder whether your friends and family are cohorts in a conspiracy of silence about how painful you have been. If alcohol gives way to your inner fairies, a hangover can sometimes let loose your inner demons.
And then… I remind myself it is just a hangover. Following the guidance of legendary drinker Amis, I remind myself that I am not, in fact, a bad person. And that I am not dying, and no one really hates me. As the Catholics say, a sin must be punished before redemption. And from that perspective, hangover is “psychiatric justice”. A swift karmic redemption for all the fun you had. An act of introducing cosmic balance to the world. A hangover is a humbling reminder of our mortality. A hangover is an ode to hope, to human positivity. That no matter how grey and groan-y you feel right now, lime juice is on its way.
