I tried masking my shitty day yesterday by smearing Pur Mineral makeup on my face in the car. Blush. Lipgloss. My hair dried sideways while I was sleeping, and it looked a little early 90's Johnny Depp-ish. Adam reassured me that I didn't look like crap, just smelled a little of vomit. Great.
Where boyfriends are never honest when it comes to my looks, car mechanics are more than generous with the truth. I barely stepped into the shop before the laughter started.
"Rough day?" Gerry snorted.
Actually, yes. I had the worst hangover since the night I met his fiancee.
I don't hate hangovers, as long as they're the really bad kind. If it's just a headache, there's too much time to think about what I regret from the night before. However, if you're puking your guts out and trying to keep water down, surviving is the only thing on your mind. Throwing up feels more purifying. Then comes the sweet, sweet healing nap. My healing naps, both of them, didn't do much for curing the barfing, though. I emptied my stomach every hour, on the hour, until around 7. This includes the mechanic shop. And my car.
The realization that you're not going to die is probably the best feeling in the world. There's always one food that kills the hangover. My first bite of gnocchi cured all thoughts of suicide. I paired this meal with fuzzy pink slippers, Evita, and a bird that happily shared my plate.
There really is nothing better than the post-hangover.
No comments:
Post a Comment