It was the end of my first work week at a new job. I’d only had one week of funemployment — having fun while unemployed — prior to starting that gig, and I was beyond exhausted. I thought to myself, “How am I going to keep up this column if I can’t even find the energy to go out? All I want to do is sleep.” So again, I sucked it up and put my big kid panties on. Yeah, I’m pretty much a G.
With conversations swirling about overturning the recent expansion of the right to marry for all in North Carolina, I found myself on the website for L4 Lounge. The banner boasted “Love. 4. All.”
A hidden gem right off Central Avenue, it’s easy to miss if you’re not actively looking. My cousin and I pulled up around 1 a.m. to a small venue with a fenced back patio illuminated with string lights. There weren’t many cars in the parking lot but there was a steady, dull bass line that could be heard every time the patio door opened. Still, I was worried there wouldn’t be enough entertainment, so I had the Uber wait until I “checked out” the scene before he left.
“You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.” — Dean Martin
Almost all of us have been here at least once: laying in bed the morning after an amazing night, pondering some very important questions.
What happened last night?
Why is it that when I roll over, I can literally feel my brain move, too?
Why can’t I open my eyes in the light?
Not long after the self-interrogation, I begin reviewing the range of alcoholic beverages consumed the night before. I try to determine the culprit, and in so doing the nausea settles in. I run to the bathroom to clutch the toilet with all my might. And soon thereafter, the prayers begin. “God, I promise I will never drink again if you cure me of this hangover.” And without hearing His/Her response, with the silence and continued hangover, I know the answer must be along the lines of, “How many times are we going to have this conversation?”
To say I haven’t asked myself the same question over and over again would be a lie. As I mentioned last week, one of the worst parts about growing up is the lack of “bounce back” I have after drinking. And despite having to navigate post-grad “adulthood,” the goal is ultimately still the same: to get wasted.
Seeing as not drinking isn’t an option for many of us, I have started to gather a list of preventative measures and “remedies,” tactics if you will, against the war on hangovers. Many of these we’ve all heard before, but let’s get this cheat sheet in one place, shall we? (By the way, these are in no particular order.)
We could argue which is more important: prevention or recovery. But whoever won the argument about the chicken or the egg? No one, the answer is just eat chicken and eggs.
It is officially week two of being CL’s nightlife columnist. I have “come out” to most of my family about this gig — they all have decided I am an alcoholic who is using this as an excuse to party. Since my column debut, I have purchased another pair of sunglasses (to replace the ones lost during Halloween). And I’ve started comparison-shopping for optical “writer” glasses: a frame that is a cross between hipster and teacher.
Allow me to state the obvious: being out of college sucks. Reason No. 1? The war between being sleepy, productive or hungover rarely equals going out three nights in a row. But recently, the stars aligned and I was able to do just that. Somehow, I was able to cut my hangovers short and take full advantage of every night. This leads me to Reason No. 2: Hangovers are rarely satisfied with a breakfast bagel and coffee, and who has time for full-on breakfast in the real world?
It’s almost 11 p.m. on the Sunday after Rich and Bennett’s 14th Annual Halloween Pub Crawl. I am just getting over my hangover. I’m still too dehydrated to stand, and it’s only now that I’m able to successfully brush my teeth without throwing up. Maybe picking up a six-pack and taking shots AFTER drinking for 10 hours straight wasn’t a good idea after all.
Almost two months ago, I was sitting in front of the editor of this here publication — whom I email-stalked for a whole month — trying to give her a reason why she should let me write for CL. A couple samples later and a week before the pub crawl, she tells me, “I want you to be our new nightlife writer.” Honestly, I wanted to shit myself. Especially when my first assignment was writing about a Halloween pub crawl that I planned on being close-to-blackout for.
I assembled my crew: the Addams family, Carrie, Anton Chigurh (I am told he is a serial killer in No Country for Old Men), Slender Man (Google it), a Native American (yes, someone who was actually Native American) and Bob Dylan. In feminist fashion, I was the iconic Rosie the Riveter.