There is a reason that I don’t typically drink. And the reason can be defined in the hours between 6am and 11am this morning. My legs ache as if I walked a marathon. My voice sounds like I’ve been smoking for 600 years and my throat feels like it. I want to coat my entire face in Vaseline. I had an urge all day for greazy (I know it’s misspelled, I like to pronounce it that way because it’s funny) food.
But it was fun before the after effects hit me. It was fun singing along to Steve’s CDs on the way home from the bar. It was fun to drink a bottle of champagne out of my new flutes. It seemed like a lot of mimosas, I know, but that’s only because they hold a mere 6 ounces. It was fun to play games with old friends and stay up way too late making jokes at each other’s expense.
Tell me, boys, how you do this day in and day out. Because I need to take at least a week to recover. And maybe an entire bottle of over-the-counter medication and a jar of Vaseline. When you add up all the recovery costs, I am no longer a cheap date. That pitcher was just the beginning.