hangovers

It is the 22nd of the month good people, which means that I am halfway through my Dry January challenge. And I am feeling, wait for it, yes CHIPPER! I know, not a word one would normally associate with a sour wee bastard, but there you have it. LSB is off the quare stuff too, and this has made the experience infinitely more doable. We can be a poor influence on each other, and it all goes a bit Craggy Island round here when it comes to the booze. ‘Sure you’ll take a glass of wine. Just the one sure, a wee drop in your hand. You will, you will, you will.’

I feel I must add here, (just incase you’re about to lift the phone to social services) that we are not a pair of drunks. To use Father Ted as a point of reference again, remember when he offends the Chinese family on the island and looks like a Neo-Nazi? And he has to show the slideshow and the words ‘TED, NOT A RACIST’ flash up to subliminally enter the consciousness of his audience? In a similar vein then, let me stress, ‘SWB, NOT AN ALCOHOLIC’ and ‘LSB, NOT ONE EITHER.’ We took on Dry January because we realised we were drinking a bit too much, a bit too often, and when you have a go counting up the weekly intake in units, they add up so quickly that it’s a bit, well, scary.

So we downed our glasses and channelled our energies into getting healthier, feeling better and saving some money.  And this, we thought, was an ideal time to do it, since January with all its cold and bleakness, can test a person’s resolve. And here is the most interesting thing I’ve found. Because I’ve taken on Dry January and the #LearnuaryNI, I’ve committed to making small changes every day and sticking to them. In short, I have eliminated vagueness. Indecisive by nature, I often resist wholly committing to things, because then I don’t have to fail. Then I can backtrack, telling myself: ‘I hadn’t really committed to it; it was just an idea.’ This time I have cut the bullshit and am actually doing and learning new things. It feels good to be succeeding at something.

I also came to a realisation, or epiphany, if you will. If you are prone to the PLOM (Poor Little Old Me) syndrome, you may find yourself whining: ‘Oh life is sooo hard, I am sooo tired: pass me a drink to get me through this Godforsaken winter.’ When I had this notion in my head, I often felt listless and rubbish. It was the mind-set which had to change; then I addressed the habits which allowed me to indulge it. (Forgive me if I sound preachy but I’m directing this entirely at my own behaviour patterns.)

I’ve started being a bit tough with myself if I find my thoughts going down these particular avenues of doom. ‘SWB,’ I say firmly: ‘Are you currently residing in a refugee camp in Calais?’ No. You are stuck in a traffic jam on the Boucher Road. Your kids will be late for swimming. Big deal.

Or: ‘Are you a Rohingya Muslim who’s been driven from their home?’ No. You’re in good health with a lovely family. Now make a donation via Concern and while you’re at it, have a side order of perspective with your latte.

Tough love is easier when you’re treating your body with respect. We’ve both been reading more, practising yoga and as a result, sleeping better.  We’ve made fewer forays out to dine at the weekends where it would be hard to resist a glass of chilled white loveliness. (We are stony broke, so this was somewhat forced upon us.) Instead, we’ve eaten steaming bowls of curry  with candles lit and the wood-burner going to create ambiance, in front of BBC 4’s Spiral. (I can’t say the severed heads in the current series do much for my appetite but it’s one hell of a show nevertheless.)

I’m training in preparation for The Roe Valley triathlon in May, and I know it’s probably psychological but I already feel leaner. And in my head I feel better: less introspective and A LOT more patient. I can be narky enough without having a hangover to boot, and I have a low tolerance for alcohol these days. (You can read some of my advice on how to manage children and hangovers here.)

I wonder if any of these positive vibes come from what Helen Foster suggests in her book Quit Alcohol (For a Month). The feeling of wellbeing when you have completed a challenge is, she says, because ‘success begets success when it comes to making change, do one thing and you become more confident in your ability to change a second.’ I can definitely relate to this.

LSB and I are planning a meal out in February to celebrate his birthday and our completion of our month of sobriety. I’m looking forward to a glass of Malbec, but I’ll cap it at two. I’m starting to like this fresher version of me. I might try and keep her around a bit longer.

Test-driving some of my dance moves in the garden in my new Catalan rig-out

“Card declined, sorry,” says the cashier at M&S. “No it can’t be! I’m just after registering my new one” I bleat. But no, the new one is nowhere to be seen, and I‘m standing gormlessly holding the old card, now invalid. I’ve just realized I’m overdrawn on my current account AND the only other card in my wallet is one I never use because I don’t recall the pin. It’s a perfect storm, like being a student again, or being back at work but paying for two children’s childcare so still being without a bean. “Let me ring my husband,” I tell the man, who looks nonplussed by now. “Will I just set it behind the counter?” he sighs, “Probably best.” I mutter.

LSB lands down, all suited and booted for the wedding we’re supposed to be at, like NOW, except I’m pissing about, making us late.  I’m ‘White Knighting’ he tells a different cashier, who seems quite taken with him. (LSB, saving the day again). I, on the other hand am feeling sad and deflated, and looking anything but smart. I’ve got the post-holiday blues and to be frank I’m wondering if I have it in me to get dolled up for a night of frivolity. The Barcelona attacks left me shaken and with all this  Trump v Kim Jung II (or whatever the fuck’s he called) business I’m all a-quiver. Every time North Korea is mentioned on the news I jump a foot in the air and LSB is stealthily hiding newspapers and leaping up to switch off the radios lest I go off the deep end again. If we ever renew our vows I’d make one of his be “I promise that on my watch, you’ll never hear a news report that makes you want to euthanise myself before the big guns do it for you”.

We leave M&S and meet Moya from the school run in the mall. “I’m off to a Big Gay Wedding tonight, but I’m not really feeling it,” I inform her. (Poor woman, she only said hello, probably wasn’t wanting an update on my psychological state.) “Her eyes widen. “A big gay wedding you say? Well you had better start feeling it! What you need is either a big glass of fizz or else something short and strong. What’s it to be?” “Oh I can’t be having the fizz,” say I, all earnest. “Did you not see that article about what it does to your teeth? “Daily Mail fear-mongering!” she retorts. “But no, it was Zoe Williams, in The Guardian,” I correct her. (The Guardian would never make you feel bad for having a few scoops would they?) “Oh Williams SchWilliams, go and enjoy your party!!” God, I love Moya. She always looks fantastic and radiates positivity. I should hate her, but I can’t, she’s just too fabulous.

Home we go, and I get a grip of myself and find my lovely new frock I bought in a  Catalan boutique and put it on. (Any wonder I’m over-drawn?) I try out some make-up tips from my Benefit tin of delights, and when I undo my plaits from earlier there’s a delightful kink in the hair. (It stops half way down, but you know, feck it.) And down to The Empire we zoom to be greeted by our two favourite newly weds, and we set about creating havoc on the dance floor. The wedding band, The Moonshines seemed heaven sent to cheer me up. They nearly did Prince better than Prince, no mean feat I’m sure you’ll agree. It was quite simply, outrageously good fun and my mood lifted considerably, due, I think, to the transcendental power of dance. It would be unfair not to mention the incredible food from Posh Nosh, and the warmth and conviviality of the wedding party too. The last wedding to which we were invited didn’t end quite so well for me, as I came home via the Ulster Hospital, having dislocated my toe after falling on it, hard, while Irish Dancing with vigour to ‘Whiskey in the Jar’. (Almost worth the pain though, since it was tremendous fun too). So all digits intact we made it home, and with only the slightest of hangovers the next morning because sure I didn’t have time to drink, so busy was I tearing up the floor.

The morale is: get dancing people! It shook me out of my funk no end. (it has also made me consider hiring this band for my fortieth, which gives me almost two years to save up. Might have to drag my sorry ass back to work at this rate)

You wake up bloated and groggy and your tongue feels like you’ve licked next door’s dog. Piecing together the night before, you realize that you lost the run of yourself altogether. You recall countless glasses of Prosecco, lovingly topped up by gracious hosts, and later by your merry self. You went to town on the sausage rolls, the tortilla chips and vol-a-vents. There wasn’t a saturated fat that went un-nibbled. Judging by the cloying reek of garlic in the air you let rip on the dips too. And there was cake, oh Good Lord above was their cake. Mince pies, Büche de Noel, a slab of something rich and gateau-ish too that would have made Mary Berry proud. There was probably Baileys. Hang on, as you raise your head from the bed and get a scalding pain behind your eye sockets, there was definitely Baileys.

Used to be, back in those halcyon pre-children days, that you could have slept off the dreadfulness and gone for a fry in Maggie Mays, or Café Conor if you were feeling flush. But this morning, one small child has an elbow on your bladder and the other is bellowing “Mummeeeee, I’m lonely” as she watches Octonauts. How you hate Octonauts, but could be worse, could be Justin. Is that eejit ever off the air?

Prior to last night’s munch-a-thon, you’d been doing quite well. There had been yoga and running and you’d even ingested some fruit. So what’s to do? No use wasting precious energy self-flagellating and fretting: you’ll need every ounce to drag your battered body from the bed. So it’s futile to languish in a pit of despair: neck a glass of water then hit the shower. First liberally apply a citrusy body wash (my current favourite is Happy Buddha by Rituals) to revive you and then put a body brush to good use. Brush away from the heart and get yourself a-tingling. This stimulates the lymphatic system and kick starts the detoxing process. You should now be feeling a little less vile, so reach for the tinted moisturiser, or maybe you’re more in need of Estée Lauder’s Double Wear. The main aim is to not want to chunder when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

So you’ve taken the bad look off yourself. Kids are plonked in front of the TV eating toast. (LSB comes into his own sometimes). Take your laptop somewhere quiet and do a few stretches. I appreciate that this sounds like the twattiest thing I’ve ever suggested, but this will help. Yoga with Adrienne has brightened up many a day for me, and she does a session for every eventuality. Morning Yoga, Yoga Rinse, (my own favourite) or Yoga for the horrifically hungover. Normally I wouldn’t be dying about an American ‘go gal!’ type but I got in to her through my good friend Emma, who takes no shit. A few gentle postures with ambient tunes may be just the ticket soothe your soul and propel you onto action. A scented candle or failing that, a drop or two of Eucalyptus oil on a tissue will help cut through the fug.

And then, nothing else for it, out you go. The kids will be skipping about in a mild frenzy by now, launching themselves off the sofa. Holidays do that to children, which is why we long for them and dread them in equal measure. Fresh air will relieve the cabin fever and if you’re lucky Hatch coffee van will be in Cherryvale where John or Claire will sympathise with you while you bemoan the choices of the night before. All is good guys, all is good.

(The following advice is only useful or relevant if you just had a few too many glasses of wine. If you went to town on the shots and all the rest, then God help you. I have no answers.)