I’m what people would call a weekender; preferring to be nestled inside the bosom of my own home from Monday to Friday. But once the weekend arrives, an alter ego takes hold of me. Ok, so maybe she isn’t a complete alter ego, but she is certainly more favorable to a late night. This ego also happens to enjoy more than a couple of sodas and a typical 4am to 6am bedtime; anytime in between is considered clover.
Sundays, and sometimes Mondays, I curse the devil and vow to never walk down the dark road again- believing whole heartedly that I can uphold this vow; but once the cloud, that is THE hangover, lifts, I am once again ripe for another fit of merrymaking. At twenty two, twenty three and twenty four, I could be effortlessly persuaded into a 6am’er on a Monday evening; not today.
Those days are clearly gone.
Consuming more than four drinks and omitting the obligatory gallon of water before bed, surely guarantees a room spinning, foot on the ground kind of hangover- the only strain I’m graced with at present- if that isn’t a sign of aging, I don’t know what is.
It’s in those moments where I feel enlightened; and it becomes excruciatingly definite, that I am no longer a child.