Hit by a Pitch

Hung Out and Hung Over

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MNDRbathroom photoThe Ting Tings

Do you ever have one of those hangovers where you wake up at 5-something and feel it coming, so you get up and drink some water and then go back to bed? You wake up later feeling like full-on shit. You try to go back to sleep but it doesn’t work. After you’ve been failing at getting comfortable in bed for like an hour, the nausea arrives. You lie there, sweating, your head pounding, trying to convince yourself that you’re not going to throw up. Ride it out, you think, as the waves come and go and come again. Eventually you get your sorry ass out of bed and plod, hunched over, to the bathroom, where for once you’re actually thankful that the room is so tiny because you can sit on the side of the bathtub while you vomit, well, nothing, tears streaming down your face, not because you’re really crying but just because that’s how it goes.

Although I talk about drinking beer and being shitfaced all the time, I don’t actually get shitfaced very often. I generally drink beer because I like drinking beer, not because I want to get drunk. Every once in a while, though, I have a little too much.

Last night, this happened before, during, and after The Ting Tings/MNDR show at the Ogden. Two Rangers at home. One Dale’s Pale Ale at Nicolo’s, where some hooches made fun of my dress, which, to tell you the truth, I don’t blame them because their minds were probably blown by its awesomeness because they looked like, well, Broncos fans who are regulars at some hole-in-the-wall with a name involving something drifting, stumbling, or floating inn who are not familiar with the sort of high fashion I bravely (just kidding) sport while out and about in this humble cow town (said dress got rave reviews from fellow concert-goers, so that was nice). Two Lucky U IPAs at the show. A valiant half of a Titan at the Matchbox after the show, where Ben and I sat by the open window and talked about how it used to be Orange Cat, where our mysterious friend Joe mixed once; how the neighborhood has changed (I just looked up reviews of The Matchbox and am LOL for real at the people referring to the area as sketchy or terrible); and about that time we met and went to Minneapolis for our first date (part of what you do when you’re drinking and out without your kid for the first evening in a year is remember when you fell in love in the first place).

Five-and-a-half beers is a lot for me these days, but I didn’t think, stretched out over a period of, what, 7 hours, it was the kind of magnificent drinking that would result in so much hangover. Ben insisted that I eat something and made me a super-greasy breakfast sandwich (whole wheat English muffin, Morningstar Farms “spicy” breakfast “sausage,” sharp cheddar, and lots and lots and lots of butter) and poured me a glass of Coke Zero. I sat across the kitchen island from Soren and took delicate nibbles of my sandwich while he ate oatmeal and cheese (you’d think he was hungover because that’s just weird) and ignored his banana. When sitting upright became too much for me, I retired to the bedroom, where I took one bite of sandwich approximately every 15 minutes until I finally finished it and possibly felt maybe a little tiny bit better.

The stupid thing about a hangover is that it sucks up hours of a perfectly good Sunday (80 degrees! And it’s going to be like 40 tomorrow!) that you should be enjoying. And shit, I missed today’s workout, for the first time in, well, I don’t remember the last time I missed a workout (I’ll make it up later this week). Lame. And it makes you write blog posts about being hungover. Lame!

Written by Tracy

April 1st, 2012 at 2:22 pm

Posted in and life,Drinking beer,Music

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