This weekend, I’ll admit, I was a bit hungover. Saturday night — deemed “Margarita Night” by the gang — went late and loud. As little Dorothy said to Toto, “We’re not in Kansas anymore,” — so I said to my body: “I’m not a kid anymore.”
I felt as though I was beat up with a baseball bat, thrown down a flight of steps, kicked in the groin and made to sit through the entire movie Gigli — all at once.
This was (painfully) obvious in the aftermath of my more-alcohol-than-water experience.
Anyone can kick a hangover. It requires a little bit of Gatorade, lots of water and some seriously greasy food (these are the things you pick up in college…).
The problem — as I experienced firsthand for the first time in a long time — is that the body (especially one with arthritis) suffers as a whole. I felt as though I was beat up with a baseball bat, thrown down a flight of steps, kicked in the groin and made to sit through the entire movie Gigli — all at once. It was horrific!
I am never going to do that to my body again. I really felt like I abused myself (though at the time it felt quite the opposite), and the consequences have become too dire. Advil helps the headache, but even two days later I still feel sore in my hips, weak in the knees and creaky in the fingers.
Has it really come to this? Is it true that margarita is Spanish for “entire week of pain”?