The Friday Hangover


The Friday struggle is arguably the hardest of all of struggles. It involves being extremely, disgustingly hungover. It’s pretty obvious the task that makes this struggle the hardest, pulling your still drunk self out bed, into the shower (maybe), and hauling ass to work. As you slouch down in your desk chair, devise an elaborate scheme to sleep on the job undetected, and feel like dehydrated dog shit, you’ll start to think to yourself, “Really?! I couldn’t have just waited 24 more hours, when I could have laid in bed all day, recovered, then proceeded to get blackout all over again, or maybe even brunched it up with a few (seven) bloody marys and mimosas and day-raged?” But no, instead you get to spend the next eight hours finding a way to not die, not get fired, and still find a way to make it out for Friday night’s festivities on little to no sleep. Seriously, who really wants to stay in hungover on a Friday night? Beginning and ending your weekend with a hangover is a rough task. I’ll do it, but it takes stamina, stamina that dwindles with each passing day.

Let’s break down how you/I ended up in this self-induced metaphorical ass kicking of a situation. Well, it was 5:00pm on Thursday, usually (depending on how my week has been, this situation could occur earlier week). I haven’t been drunk since Sunday morning, so by Thursday, my low-alcohol light starts flashing and my liver starts begging to be saturated with booze. Especially after having Fridays off for the last nine years, because Thursdays are THE night in a college town, and only people who weren’t smart enough to figure out a way around it had class on Friday. Therefore, my body isn’t accustomed to having to wait five whole days before my next rager. (If you’re one of the lucky postgrads that works for a company that utilizes flex Fridays, I hate you, and the rest of this story of demise doesn’t apply to you.) So I’m driving home thinking to myself, “I could eat dinner, polish off a bottle of wine, go to bed before 10, make it to work on time in the morning, and then rage face Friday night!” This, of course, is not what is to follow. Instead, I take to my phone and start hitting up all my usual partners in alcoholic debauchery.

It starts out with a little dinner, beer specials to save money, every intention on being in bed before 11 with a nice buzz to help you sleep nicely. As the evening progresses, the beer specials aren’t cutting it anymore, and your palate starts to crave something a little stronger. On a Friday or Saturday, this would most definitely be Jack Daniels for me, but it’s a weeknight and I want to make sure I save my favorite drink for a night when I can really get loose. So I go to my second favorite drink, one that you can really class up your weekday bender with, the extra-dirty martini. Prior to this point, I have already recognized my eventual yearning for this weeknight escalator and told my friend that I am not allowed to have any. Not only are they not a good idea for a responsible weekday warrior, but they are also hard on the need to be a fiscally conservative postgrad. Unfortunately, I am neither of those things when it comes to my extracurriculars, so the statement to my friend was essentially pointless. A) I know I’ll have one whether she tells me “no” or not, and B) let’s get real, we all like seeing our friends put on an impromptu shit-show. However, in order to abide by my request to not allow martinis, yet still not deny my wants, my friend says “just no martinis after 10:30.” I think this is a great rule. I get what I want, and I believe it will still allow me to function in the morning. When I order the third one at 10:29, though still following the rules we have established, I’m already drunk. From here, what turned into being in bed by 11 is now “we’ll just make sure we leave the bar by midnight.”

So midnight arrives, and what was tipsy at 9 and slightly drunk at 10:30 is now full on intoxication. At this point, what else is there to do besides shut the bar down at 2am? I’m not a big casual drinker. If I’m not going to get at least semi-drunk, I don’t like to waste the calories. The same sort of logic applies here. You already know you’re going to feel less than optimal in the morning, why not just finish it out, rage, have a good time, and cross that work bridge when it gets here. This is the same good time that usually occupies more than a few spots on my top 10 highest credit card charges every month. Moral of the story: not only do you get to feel like ass, but you get to do it publicly at work, while realizing you’ve already spent $100 on partying and it’s not even Friday night yet. FML. See everyone next Thursday!

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After stretching college out for 9 years, McMagistrate is now an attorney in her late-ish 20's who earned her title by embracing the stigma that accompanies a healthy partying habit. She enjoys showing off her sub-par golf game and pretending her impressive law school loan doesn't exist. You can likely find her on her patio, live-tweeting her wine binges, and concerning her neighbors.

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