The never-ending party is the most effective way to ensure no hangover. But once in a while it’s Sunday night and you realize you’re supposed to stagger through the doors of your workplace in mere morning hours, and that you should probably start sobering up. With visions of pounding temples and queasy bellies in our fuzzy brains we futilely chug glass after glass of water, swig Gatorade, and shakily nuke frozen pepperoni pies, praying for salvation in the form of grease, carbs, and electrolytes. Short of a pre-work Bloody Mary that could result in (depending on your job) certain termination should supervisors get wise, what’s a desperate drunk to do?
Mama’s greasy medicine.
Enthusiast HQ learned of drinkwel, a new and supposedly-hangover relieving multivitamin supplement from an UrbanDaddy email. We wrote the company in search of swag, and luckily, our plea resulted in free samples. Was I skeptical? Of course. The placebo effect is powerful. I needed a field test—and, another fantastic excuse to get insanely wasted for 48 hours.
For the sake of our science experiment, the weekend prior to testing we hosted a drinkwel-free housewarming celebration at our apartment. 6pm accordion-accompanied cocktails turned into local dive bar, which became our irate neighbors pounding on their floor (our ceiling) as the after-party raged until sunrise. After a brief pass-out break the Enthusiasts arose and resumed—with brunch cocktails, then car bombs, and Pabst at the park. We eventually ended with Jameson shots, the obligatory night’s-end debauchery, and wee hours Chinese food delivery. The crackling reception of radio alarm clock news blaring into my quivering, 7am Monday ears, roused me, unwilling, and weeping in pain. No amount of blearily downed coffee alleviated my skin from clamminess, my hand from its persistent trembling, nor my unfortunate sudden stutter, or piercing nausea. And it surely did not help my drowned synapses fire any faster. Even now, the memory of the longest fucking day ever sends me cowering into a curled-up ball in the darkest, coldest corner available, my fearful rocking interrupted only by an occasional chilling, breathless shriek.
Gay Pride 2010: I think they might be fake.
For drinkwel field testing weekend we had a similar enthusiasm-a-thon planned: it was Gay Pride weekend here in San Francisco, which meant the Dyke March on Saturday, Pride Parade Sunday morning, a sporting event (Cup-something?) and a friend’s birthday party boozewitched between the two. Drinkwel, show me what you got. This post-booze binge Monday, I awakened armed with a week’s worth of daily doses plus the extra supplements for nights of heavy imbibing pulsing through my body and blood. And, I have to say—I felt much, much, much better than I had the previous Monday. My unfortunate telltale hangover stutter didn’t rear its shivering face, and the workday did not inspire constant fantasies of full immersion in Guinness Book sized glasses of ice water, and supremely-topped pizza consumed in the reposed warmth of my own bed, and paired with triple-shots of leftover Maker’s. It felt not too different from any other listless week-inception—I was tired, sure, but not even close to the quivering, sweaty, and idiotic mess I’d been the week earlier.
It was almost as if my hangover had time traveled back to a more innocent drunken era. To a time when I could still down double-digit quantities of tequila shots and awaken bushy-eyed and bright-tailed the next morning. To a place where 40s flowed like water every Wednesday and treated me no worse the next morning as I happily skipped to Hum. 110 lecture. Younger Josey: as I stare back at you now, scratching these blurry memories with my aging fingernails, it makes me want to weep like it’s the 5th of July and I blacked out on the beach and forget to eat my drinkwel and it now looks like the water in my Nalgene has been replaced with warm apple juice … no, wait, that’s definitely urine. You just don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.
A month or so later, I’m still swallowing my drinkwels with a side of drunk, and praying for more free supplemental salvation. (Hint, hint?) If not … I may just have to put aside some of my happy hour fund to buy more. Because this Enthusiast sure doesn’t plan on driving her bender train off the rails anytime soon, and she needs all the recovery help she can get.
Pizza photo courtesy of The Suss-Man (Mike), flickr.
Boobies photo courtesy of Sterling.
And if you’re not convinced,