I’ll admit Saturday night got out of hand, but just ever so slightly. I did that thing where you open a bomber of good beer before you realize that perhaps a bomber is too much. But it’s open, and it’s good, and you’re not going to pour it down the drain. So you say “what the hell” and drink it, only to wake up the next morning saying “what the hell?!” For the record, there might have been a little Knob Creek involved as well. Allegedly.
So Sunday morning came down, as Johnny Cash would say, and I was coated in a thin film of crappiness. I wasn’t hating life or severely hung over – those days are behind me now – but I was aware that mistakes had been made. I was a little dizzy, I began to sweat with little provocation, and all I wanted to do was go back to bed. But I couldn’t, because I’m all-growed-up and I have too much stuff to do. It turns out I’m too old for hangovers.
Here’s how Sunday went for me:
- I woke up at 8am, as my wife left to go to the chiropractor. The poor girl is miserable right now and is facing a bumpy road back from a lower lumbar strain. She’s totally hobbled, and I’m trying to keep her off of her feet, which makes my plate especially full right now.
- My son was across the hall in the office happily playing video games, so I laid in bed for half an hour watching Wicked Tuna (basically the Real Housewives of Boston, where the divas have been replaced with fishermen) on NatGeo, until I heard my daughter stir. No way you let THAT ONE have the run of the house. So I was on my feet.
- I had about 30 minutes for coffee and hanging out with the kids, then I had to get my day rolling and get them ready for a basketball thing my son had. Much of this time was spent negotiating outfit options with my six-year old daughter. That stuff is hardwired into some girls!
- Then it was a 60 minute drive to basketball, 60 minutes of activity (he played, I watched in a hot gym), 60 minutes back, followed by grocery shopping for the week and a bunch of other mundane errands. I let the kids totally work me over at the grocery store, loading the cart full of crap I was too dragged-out to protest. There’s no other way to explain the six pack of miniature Diet Coke bottles in the fridge. It’s like our own mini bar!
- Then home again for dishes, laundry and kid/dog washing, followed by making dinner and other domestic-type endeavors.
- Finally, it was time to sit down and write a first draft of my weekly article for the Today Show’s website, the bulk of which I like to get done on the weekend so I can let it sit for a day or two before polishing it up. I managed to bang out about 700 words that I feel pretty good about, a testament to how a good idea can inspire you regardless of how you’ve mismanaged your alcohol intake the night before.
- Then it was the Mad Men season finale and collapsing into bed.
I’m not complaining exactly – I had a nice time yesterday – but I now realize that the option of taking a day to recuperate from a hangover, even a mild one, no longer exists in my life. There’s simply too much to do, and the idea of doing all of it with last night’s fun squeezing at your temples is enough to turn me into a teetotaler.
As Danny Glover once said, I’m getting too old for this s#&t!