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I refer to that time on Sunday mornings when I lie in bed, only vaguely thinking about getting up. This period has changed beyond recognition now I no longer drink alcohol.
Slowly come to life and lie very still until I work out it is indeed Sunday.
Assess myself for degree of hangover. This is based on how much I drank last night, whether my head is pounding, how thirsty I am, how desperate my need for carbs is and whether I am feeling sick or that the room is spinning.
Next I raise my head a little, tentatively, perhaps to look at the clock or to see if there is a glass of water at my bedside, and observe whether my brain moves with my skull or if it lags a second or two behind, only to slam into it again when the skull stops moving.
Again, I reassess for nausea and room spin.
Next, I consider what I had planned for the day, mentally checking if there is anything planned that I am no longer fit for and deciding whether I can cancel it or not. (Taking kids to the swimming pool? Cancelled. Obviously.)
My thoughts wander back to the previous night, assessing the damage. Had I picked an argument? Emptied the kitchen of snacks? Had I texted any friends with 'great ideas' or bought anything online on the spur of the moment? (See how wild I was then?)
Eventually I would sit up slowly and wait to see what happened. This was a defining moment in my ability to function or not.
I would be torn between knowing how much better I would feel if I went straight to the shower, yet really wanted to crawl downstairs for breakfast first. The latter ran the risk of interacting with noisy children and fulfilling their demands and had to be balanced carefully with its merits. Eventually I would venture downstairs, crossing my fingers the kids would not fight or have the television on too loudly. I also hoped there was not too much to be done in the way of clearing up from the night before: I could not bear the smell of stale wine from glasses and empty bottles. I would survive the day one way or another. I'd claim tiredness or a headache and hope that time passed swiftly and my illness would wane.
I lie in bed, pleased to have woken up reasonably early to make the most of a day off work. (Always so much easier to get up on Sundays than on Mondays!). I listen out for the children playing downstairs, smiling as I hear the sounds of them breakfasting themselves (always a bit messy but well worth a little clearing up).
Mentally I visit my lists. I love lists. Going through my To Do, To Buy, To Do (Home), and To Do (Work) lists, I plan what I want and need to get done today: what I'll cook for dinner, whether I'll use the brown bananas to make muffins, avoiding waste. What else will I do if I have time? Nip to the shops? (There is no nipping anywhere with a hangover.) Take the garbage piled in the garage to the dump? Maybe wash the car? (Or persuade OH to do this.)
After a quick shower I gather up the laundry from the basket and amble downstairs. I put on the washing machine and have a cup of tea while I decide what I fancy for breakfast.
Above all, I am thankful to be feeling so well and hangover free, the day is bursting with possibility.
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