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A booze up can be a great time, but the hangover and anxiety seems to become more intense with age. Is there ever an obvious time to pack it in and call it a day?
Before I start this week’s wildcard, let me quickly acknowledge how contradictory this looks.
Last Sunday I was celebrating all the joys that come with pub culture, whether it be the socialising, the music, or just a cold beverage in a sunny beer garden. I still stand by it! Get yourself to a local with some friends and make some memories.
Not every pub session has to be a massive, gluttonous display of crisps and cheap lager, but it often swings that way if you’ve a long weekend ahead or celebrating an occasion. It happens all the time, up and down the UK, and it’s unlikely to stop – even if Gen Z are drinking less. There isn’t anything inherently wrong with this, either. So long as you’re with trusted friends and it’s not a weekly occurrence, it’s fine to indulge every now and then.
With that being said, we can’t ignore the elephant in the room. The morning after.
Hangovers can be awful. I probably don’t need to explain what they feel like, but for those who’ve lived healthier lives and somehow avoided them altogether, let’s summarise. They usually tie your stomach in knots, reduce your ability to function properly, and give you a pounding headache for good measure. Sometimes you’ll be able to go about your life as normal, other times you’ll be bed bound and useless the entire day.
Hangovers are a staple of British life and a reluctant rite of passage, especially for those who grew up before the influencer and wellness eras we exist in today. I’m talking early tens and noughties, when our behaviours were still largely learnt from friends and family, rather than online creators.
When I was at university, hangovers were not a big deal. I’d go out clubbing with my flatmates and drink a ton of jagerbombs, vodka with energy drink, and any other unholy combination of spirits and mixer I’d be offered across the bar. We’d stay out late and only get three or so hours of decent sleep. The next day? We’d all be in lectures or studying as if nothing happened. It was our routine.
I kept this up throughout my early twenties, though by this point my habits were definitely starting to take a tole on my physical and mental wellbeing without me realising. I put on a little weight, would feel the hangovers far more, and be less cognisant the next day. I’d engage in bed rotting, sleep the hours away, and ultimately be fairly useless for a good portion of the morning and afternoon.
These days, hangovers are a tricky business for me. I don’t get them nearly as often as I used to, just for the sheer fact I’m a much healthier person now and tend to overdo it far less. I’m also in much better shape, which makes them easier to handle physically when they do crop up from time to time.
Where I struggle most now is the mental toll that comes with a particularly bad binge. While the night before is usually a great time with friends, the next day can be a punishing inverse of the emotions felt twelve hours prior. I am an anxious person as it is and I often struggle to trust that I’m not an annoying, emotional oversharer. A hangover brings all these insecurities to the forefront of my brain and I spend hours picking apart my behaviour, or piecing together forgotten parts of the evening.
Did I say something stupid? Was I rude? Have I struggled to remember something important a friend might have mentioned? Will somebody bring up an embarrassing anecdote about me next time I see them? Were any texts sent to people they shouldn’t have? On and on the questions go, spinning about my brain like a frustrated hamster on a wheel.
