Bye Fantasyland, hi Tomorrowland
TWO-DAY hangovers are sadly a fact of life for me these days.
Gone are the days from my late teens and early 20s when I could go out every night between Thursday and Sunday for a session with mates, and bounce back the next day as if I had eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.
I’ve tried heaps of hangover cures: effervescent tablets such as Hairy Lemon and Hydralyte, black coffee, Gatorade, Powerade and slurpees.
I’ve even tried skolling as much water as I can stomach when I return home after a night out.
Once these remedies worked but sadly now they don’t.
When I finally put my head down after a night out I’m looking forward to at least eight hours of sleep but alas I’m usually wide awake in bed by 7.30am.
My body clock knows no bounds and, despite the amount of alcohol I’ve consumed the night before, finds a way to wake me as if it were a usual work day.
These days after a decent drinking session on a Saturday my Sunday is spent going between fridge, couch and toilet. I long for the day when Uber Eats or Deliveroo actually deliver to my place. It’s a first world problem at its finest but I’m miffed why these services don’t deliver to homes under five kilometres from the centre of the CBD. These days if I’ve had a decent night out on Saturday, I only come good on Monday night or Tuesday morning. On Monday I’m usually stuck with a firm case of regret from the decisions of Saturday night. But by Thursday I’m planning to hit the town again at the weekend.
I’m at a crossroads where I’m faced with toning down my Saturday nights as I try to mature. But how much fun would I miss out on if I did?
At heart I’m an 18-year-old stuck in a 27-year-old’s body.
I still love a drink and most of the time enjoy the nightclub scene.
I live for the afternoon after a night out. The banter while recapping the antics from the night before always brings a laugh.
Recently a mate, who is significantly younger than me, said, and I quote, “you’re too fun to be 27 years old”. In the words of Walt Disney: “Growing old is mandatory. Growing up is optional”.
I’ll stick by these words for the moment — in some parts of my life at least.