So, what did you guys do this weekend? I did some grocery shopping, hung out with friends, and then spent most of Sunday lying on the floor of my bathroom in the dark, drooling and clinging to the tile, praying that I might spontaneously combust and disintegrate into a pile of ash on the spot. Oh, and then later on I called my mother.
I can�t pinpoint the exact moment, but sometime after our second (and erroneously predicted �final�) round of martinis on Saturday, we developed some irreconcilable differences with our personal limits and agreed to a trial separation. I won�t say we didn�t have a lot of fun gallivanting about like the Brat Pack, swilling martinis and champagne and generally succumbing to a blissful delirium, but when I awoke on Sunday morning with the Angel of Death perched on the edge of my bed, I began to regret my carefree behavior from the night before.
I crawled to the bathroom on shaky limbs, determined not to give up the contents of my stomach without a fight, but being simultaneously aware that if and when I should happen to have lost this particular battle (and let�s face it�I was not exactly in peak form), I would certainly want the barf trail to be as short as possible for clean-up purposes. I am pleased to say there was no barf trail (or barf, for that matter), but the three hours I spent lying cold and mostly naked next to the toilet, hallucinating that my dead relatives were encouraging me to �head towards the light�, were not my proudest.
I�ve only been that hard up once in my life, which was, ironically, exactly a year ago this very weekend in question (see here). I�m not sure what that means, but if my life is cyclical, I�m circling this past weekend in my calendar and spending it in bed every year. I�ll also be throwing out anything containing alcohol, including handy wipes, because I don�t need to take any chances. It�ll be my own version of Sleeping Beauty or something.
But seriously. Have you ever had that hangover that was so bad you felt like someone had hogtied your brain and hit you in the solar plexus with a steam shovel? My head throbbed, my tongue was swollen, my eyes wouldn�t focus, and my stomach rolled like a cement mixer getting ready to unload at any second. As the cold sweats started I wondered if I ought to call a doctor or an exorcist. Clearly, this was no ordinary case of alcohol poisoning. I was carrying Rosemary�s Baby.
My phone rang about eight times that afternoon, and each ring elicited nothing more than a moan from me as I discovered a deeper understanding of Quasimoto�s complaint about those damn bells. I was finally able to stand upright again around 3:00 in the afternoon, at which time I decided to go and get a nice, soothing cup of tea, and start calling people back. As it turned out, the tea I got wasn�t so much nice and soothing as it was �molten� and �excoriating�, but after the blisters inside my mouth subsided into scar tissue, I found it was just what my stomach needed to calm itself a bit. It was little added consolation to learn that the others in my party had fared no better than I, and we had much to compare and contrast about our sorry physical conditions.
The disturbing fact is that this was not my heaviest night of drinking, nor by far my most irresponsible�I remember every part of the evening clearly, and made sure to eat and drink several glasses of water before bed. It seems my age is catching up with me. Or maybe my tolerance is dropping? This was the first time I�d had more than a single glass of wine in weeks, and my body was clearly not happy about the sudden indulgence.
So anyway, I survived, and have no plans for any sort of follow-up performance. I guess if it only happens once a year it�s not the worst thing, but�the next time I speak with angels on the ceiling, I hope I�m not asking them to make it quick and painless.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: fight �broke her finger� I�m Watching: Black Narcissus. Nothing like a movie about a bunch of crazy nuns in the Himalayas to chase away your hangover blues. I�m Reading: I�m about fifteen pages from the end of A Cook�s Tour, but my plans to finish it on Sunday were understandably aborted.