Picture this. My mom woke me up this morning at 7:30am (an ungodly hour) so that we could join a Zoom call with her three sisters, my sister, and my cousins.
The whole time, I looked and felt like a total trainwreck. I couldn’t figure out why. Yes, it was early, but it wasn’t that early. Finally, we got off the call at 9am, and I crawled back into bed for a few more hours.
After waking up for the second time, I realized what the difference was between this, and any other Saturday. The night before I had had two beers (an amber ale and an IPA, if you care).
Are you following? Two beers. Two BEERS had given me a hangover. Certainly not the worst hangover I’ve had, but a persistent, low-grade hangover that would not let up until the mid-afternoon.
Unlike other people in quarantine, who are using this time to get creative with their mixology / get cozy with wine and a movie every day of the week, I am living with my parents, who judge me if I drink during the week. My alcohol tolerance has never been worse, and I fear for my social life post-pandemic.
I had one glass of white wine with dinner tonight. Pray for me tomorrow.