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I’ve found that Friday morning hangovers are often ripe with regret. They serve as a painfully tangible reminder of just how undisciplined I truly am. Very few things in this world make me feel like more of a bum than waking up with an agonizing headache the morning after getting shitfaced on a weeknight. It’s never an especially proud moment.
Going full Sendy McSenderson, particularly on a Thursday night, just feels lazy. The weekend is so close! You can practically smell the cheap vodka and powdered lemonade mix mingling with that vaguely chemical scent of the brand new Solo cups into which they were poured. I can almost hear the aggressively explicit rap lyrics — that I’m probably too upper-middle class to be listening to anyway — blaring through the speakers at full noise complaint-generating volume. It’s no wonder that I couldn’t control my excitement. I was just trying to will the weekend into existence.
I could have just gone to bed like a responsible student. Instead, I chose to gradually finesse myself into a casual power blackout by throwing ping pong balls into plastic cups for several consecutive hours. Apparently I’m not a big “delayed gratification” guy. I suppose there are worse qualities to have.
Consuming a Wade Boggs-esque quantity of beer on a Thursday evening is like unwrapping half of your Christmas presents on December 23rd. It takes some of the magic out of Friday and Saturday. I realize that there are probably plenty of people who would deem weeknight binge drinking totally acceptable. Trust me, I solute and respect your hustle. I’m just not personally there yet.
This morning, however, I woke up feeling like 150-pound bag of asses. I’m talking remarkably hungover. The kind of hangover that, unlike the events that preceded it, will be remembered vividly.
Combatting the effects of excessive drinking is something that most college students are intimately familiar with. Over the years, I, myself, have adopted a number of tried-and-true methods for hangover treatment. My acceptance of the reality that there are certain ailments that will inevitably accompany my utter indifference towards my liver has been a big part of growing up and maturing. This morning, though, I decided that drastic measures needed to be taken, so I tried something new.
I went to the gym.
Is this a psycho move? You know what, I truly don’t care if it is. This shit worked. I feel like a new man. It’s like I just sweated out all of my bad decisions and can now replace them with new ones. I’m ready to take a mulligan on last night and attack the weekend with renewed energy.
I’m recharged, revitalized, and ready to fuck this weekend. As comedy legend Ralphie May once said, “If you’re going to dance with the devil, you might as well lead.”
I’ll admit that it was difficult to muster the energy to do a cardio-intensive workout the morning after getting irresponsibly hammered. However, once your heart is pumping, you’ve worked up a sweat and there’s finally some oxygen going to your damaged brain, you’ll be happy you went through with it.
It’s like visiting Machu Picchu. You have to really want it. It’s a little bit out of the way. However, once you arrive, you’ll find that the rewards were well worth the struggle. Sweating out your demons reminds them who’s in charge. Take control of your hangovers. Don’t let the liquor win..