© Pierre Maré,
2004 - 2007
Offbeat 93
Last night was great. It involved a friend, a meandering conversation and a bunch of beers in a place not quite dark and smoky enough to qualify as a good pub, but with just enough honesty and wood to escape the dreadful sobriquet of ‘alcohol boutique’.
I hate the new style of watering hole. Neon lights, brightly coloured cocktails and the plumage of the young arouse in me various negative emotions but mainly the urge to flee before I begin feeling my age. The place I visited last night has no television or jukebox. It is utilitarian: for eating, drinking and conversation only. If only it were a couple of blocks from my home, I would categorize it as worthy of at least one night a week.
Today, however, I have paid. This morning was marked by a certain light-headedness. Gradually it progressed to one of those pounding headaches. Shortly after lunch, my eyeballs started aching. There is always a point at which you should stop drinking. Usually this point is only established in hindsight, and no, it wasn’t 20/20 this morning: it was somewhat blurry.
It has been a while since I had a decent hangover. On a scale of one to ten, I would rate today’s as about a four. I was still able to work, and I can still remember everything that was said in all the very long meetings, even if they were conducted in a tempo beaten out by hammers in the back of my head.
What’s a ten? That’s the one when you wake up, notice the sun is on the wrong side of the horizon, go back to bed realizing the futility of making any excuses, and postpone the hangover until another night has passed. I have only ever had one of those. It was an education in how bad the ‘worst case scenario’ really could be.
Nowadays my hangovers are rare. It’s a side effect of parenting and responsibility. A hangover is a waste of productive time. But it was different a few years ago.
The beauty of a hangover when you are young, and obviously dumb, is that it is a conversation with last night, or even the night before last in the case of a ten on the hangover scale. It’s a bit of a one-sided conversation, conducted mainly by the hangover, but it tells you so much, and in such clear terms.
A hangover tells you that you are a man, or at least strong if you want to take the non-sexist approach, and that whining is not only unbecoming, but also completely futile. It also tells you that a headache tablet is only a partial solution.
It reminds you that you had an amazing party, at least in the hazy way that you remember it. It also points out that you can go out and do it all again tonight, and the hangover will go away for the evening.
And in certain circumstances, it even makes the standard crises and situations seem quite manageable, at least in comparison to the unrelenting throbbing behind your eyeballs and that particularly painful spot at the back of your head.
But age, wisdom and responsibility have a way of creeping up. And after a while, the yardstick for your parties becomes nothing more than a painful nuisance. The conversations with your buddies comparing the scale of hangovers become tinged with an ugly inevitability. Been there. Done that. Got the alcohol scented t-shirt and the matching pair of red eyes.
I have a strange appreciation of my hangovers nowadays. They remind me that there is excess, even though it has been years since I was excessive. They also remind me of the preciousness of a clear head as I try to take control of my mind again, the morning after.
So in the end, hangovers teach you something other than macho powers of survival. They teach you not to overdo it, or at least only on certain occasions that have some particular merit to them, for instance a rare moment of freedom from too much responsibility and the opportunity to let your hair down and raise a few mugs of convivial beer with a friend.
Hangovers are unfairly maligned. There is plenty to be said for moderation, but only a really strong hangover can show you the wisdom behind the words. .
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