March 12th, 2024: Rocking gently back and forth in bed. Muttering to myself, “I’m OK. You’re OK. It’s going to be OK. Don’t think about how your teeth taste like the intake valve of a sewage treatment plant,” with all the fervour of a soapbox preacher. Swallowing semi-regular regurgitations and willing myself to fall back to sleep long enough for the nausea to pass. Anything to avoid actually getting up and spending the next several hours glued to the toilet bowl, alternating between head-in or ass-in, as I battle a bout of gastrointestinal mutiny from both ends.
Another fucking hangover. How the fuck did this happen?
The Road to Perdition
Of course, it happened the same way it always happens, with a duplicitous guarantee to myself and anyone else within earshot that, “I’m only going to have a couple of drinks and we won’t have a big one.” PAH! The truth is, I’m about as trustworthy around a bottomless brunch as Ozzy O at a poppy-harvesting convention.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly not your everyday alcoholic. And I’ve known alcoholics, believe me. I rub shoulders with a fistful of them, on a spectrum from functional to how-the-fuck-is-your-liver-not-a-sieve. No, I’m not an unremitting inebriate (no shade to the unremitting inebriates amongst you, just establishing a baseline here). But like many elder millennials, I’m an Accidental Binge Drinker.
Not to be mistaken for the Habitual Binge Drinker, whose clarion call is, “Can’t wait to get sewwwww faarked up this weekend, yew comin?!!”, the Accidental Binge Drinker finds themselves snuck up on — on any given Saturday afternoon, at an innocent enough soiree with friends — by a casual day-drinking ‘couple of quiet ones’ that turns into an all-out Pinocchio’s Pleasure Island of imbibery.
You know how the ritual WhatsApp conversation goes:
Mate: Y'alright for tomorra, la? Fancy a scran?
ABD: Sounds boss, that. Not goin' mad, like. Got a load to sort on Sunday.
Mate: Sound, me too, lad. Just a bite an' a few bevvies, nothin' heavy.
ABD: Top one, mate. What time we chattin'?
(I don’t know about you, but I inexplicably turn Scouse when I’m organising a lunch date.)
And so it goes. Show up to the designated gastropub at 12 pm on Saturday, and order a pint with lunch. The waitstaff are uncharacteristically helpful and offer to fetch you another drink before the empty glasses even hit the table. You’re busy chatting, enjoying a jolly ol’ jol, paying less attention than is wise to how many bevvies you’ve consumed. As the afternoon winds down and the street lamps are lit, you find yourself having an increasingly good time. The jokes get better, the conversation flows freer, you transform into your charming alter-ego — your super-intellectual-but-hilarous self. Inevitably, you’re soon riding Satan’s chariot down a one-way goat track to full-blown cerebral compromise and you’re none the wiser.
Before you can say ‘Flava Flav at a DUI checkpoint with his novelty oversized clock,’ the joint is closing and you’re feverishly researching late-night options to carry on the conviviality. Nary a venue to be found, you begrudgingly call it quits and head for home. Four thousand nine hundred and eight-five liquid calories consumed, there goes your diet, your wallet significantly lighter than at day’s dawn, you’ve chipped a nail and lost a flip flop, but somehow made it home with your keys still in your pocket.
All’s well that ends well.
At least until you wake up to the unrelenting, all-enveloping rager of a headache and a mouth as dry as a bag of gypsum.
Hello, Sunday Morning
“I swear to god, I did not have that much to drink!”
(Why on earth we all try to downplay the scale of our consumption the next day, I have no idea. But it’s par for the course. Like somehow admitting to the debauchery would make the hangover all the more deserved and see our pleas for sympathy go deafeningly unanswered.)
Queue: The toilet dance, popping several hundred milligrams of codeine, and spending the next couple of days being about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
Now, as a self-employed writer, I can afford to spend a couple of days in convalescence, should the occasion call for it. But recently it got to a point where there were so many good catch-ups to be had — a relentless conveyor belt of visiting friends, and hence, too many excellent and unavoidable opportunities for accidental binge drinking — that a couple of days here and there had turned into a good half of the month spent clutching the paracetomol packet. Finally, I deduced that maybe it was time for a break. Not one for a 12-step program, though, I wanted some other inspiration (or at least, a catchy phrase) to wrest my attention away from drinking and towards more life-enhancing pursuits.
Enter, stage left: Hello Sunday Morning (HSM)
HSM was founded by Aussie change-maker, Chris Raine (Young Australian of the Year, 2012), in an effort to help you ‘get your Sundays back’; Quit (or at least have a healthier relationship with) drinking, feel better, and stop washing your weekends down the proverbial in a booze-fuelled blur. I’d never thought too hard about it way back when the initiative was launched over a decade ago, but the name always stuck with me (see, catchy) due in no small part to its perfect simplicity: Want to be glad when Sunday mornings roll around, and maybe go out for a coffee date, play a game of touch rugby, organise a food drive for the homeless, or any number of other things the non-hungover folk of the world get up to on the weekend? Heck yes, I do.
The night of March 11th was the last time I had a drink (or eight pints of mango cider, if you must know). Since then, I’ve been booze-free. And the sudden deprivation of liquor quickly snowballed into other healthy habits: I’m largely caffeine-free; taking daily 5km walks; and cooking super-duper healthy, eat-the-rainbow meals that make me regularly ask myself, “Who even is she?”
And wouldn’t you know it? I’ve been sleeping sounder (chronic insomniac here), feeling better, and on weekends, I find myself saying things like, “Do you think we can do the Couch to 5K in this heat?” and “Let’s find somewhere we can play a game of indoor squash tomorrow.” (I have yet to find one in Hanoi, but the sentiment is there.)
Two months of not drinking hasn’t meant fewer gatherings with mates, in case you were wondering. We’ve had plenty of social outings over the last several weeks, and every time, I’ve just asked for a soda water (in a wine glass, preferably — my number one tip for not feeling left out at a nice dinner). And while there’s been some backlash from the typical ‘I’m in my 30s and I still think peer pressure is cool’, lesser-evolved acquaintances, it’s been far more low-key than expected. Most pals have failed to raise an awkward eyebrow when I’ve forgone the libations in favour of a carbonated H2O (or is that H2CO3?). And although my sober state means having to grind the social gears that little bit harder than I’m accustomed to, I’ve managed to hold off the interaction apprehension I’d been expecting, and enjoy myself in the company of others — even those in varying states of intoxication.
It’s early days. Two months is hardly medal-worthy, after all. But so far, being the non-drinker in the crowd is feeling pretty dandy. We’ve got a couple of weddings coming up in the famous wine regions of South Africa later this year, where this resolve will really be put to the test. Whether or not I’ll continue the mission and forever sport an invisible badge that reads, “My Name’s Maggie and I Don’t Drink”, we’re yet to see. Will I open myself up to the occasional tipple for a special event, or will you find me here in a few months, panic-guzzling Gatorade in the shower after several big nights out? Who knows? Watch this little internet space and we’ll all find out together.
Sobriety (or alternatively, alcoholism) is something we’re more comfortable talking about than ever, which is unquestionably a good thing. For my part, it’s made me keen to read more accounts from the sober-curious contingent and get involved in the conversation. How about you? Have you ever given up the drink? Maybe you’re a life-long Sober Simon, or even a regular drinker looking to reform? Hell, maybe you’re committed to the boozy life and have no intention of slowing down, consequences be damned! All power to you, and godspeed to your liver. Truly.
Wherever you fall on the continuum, I’d love to hear about your experiences with alcohol. See you in my DMs as always, or drop a comment below and let’s chat.
Warmly,
Maggie
Proud of you, boo, however long you decide not to drink. Two months is an accomplishment! So kudos! Tbh I've been thinking about it a lot more but I already don't drink very often as it is so I'm not sure I need to cut it out entirely. (I say this having just bought a bottle of wine and am one-glass in.) But when I do, like you, I do tend to go a bit overboard and the next day is always a wash. I think it's this all-or-nothing mentality I'm struggling with. Anyway, thanks for sharing! Lot to think about.💗
Love this post so much. Drinking alcohol impacted my anxiety and mental health terribly and I felt like it was holding me back. I quit drinking 2 years ago and now write about it weekly so hopefully I can even pass along a smidgen of helpful advice or support. Every milestone deserves a celebration so you should be really proud of yourself!