It’s Sunday morning a little before noon. You roll over to see the sun peering in through your window, and your head is pounding. You recall the events from the night before in mismatched pieces, along with puddles of agony knowing you probably did and said too many things you really shouldn’t have. You’re still in your dress from Saturday night; hell, you’ve actually been wearing it since Friday, but honestly, you haven’t had time to change with your social calendar. You remember, barely, consuming mozzarella sticks at a diner shortly before 5 AM, and you’re pretty sure if you move too fast, you’ll be face to face with the remnants of them either on your floor, or if timing allows, in your toilet. Your hot pink polka-dotted boy shorts are still barely hanging around one of your ankles, and based on the guttural snoring of someone else in your room, you got lucky (you think). Yep, you’re hungover…congratulations! No big deal! Being hungover can be pretty – no, seriously, I speak from experience.
Besides that one specific angle in that one dully-lit room that I’ve only been in once, I never look as good as I do after a two (or three) day bender. Sure, they tell us alcohol is so bad for our bodies, and then list Jack Kerouac and F. Scott Fitzgerald as proof, but there are some upsides to drowning yourself in the sauce.
While people who fancy themselves “grown up” (and those annoying kids who have been straight-edge for all of five minutes) may try to steer you away from alcohol consumption with a list of wild accusations that drinking is bad, there is a gray area in every argument. Case in point: me. I may not be the smartest or the wittiest lass on my block, I may even have the creepy habit of keeping track of how many toe-walkers I see a day, but I do know hangovers, and I know them well. Please keep in mind, I’m not bragging, as I’m not the type, but one thing’s for sure, you’ll never see me gallivanting around town without my version of Sunday’s Best.