The Holiday Hangover Is Real


There is no cure for the fresh hell known as the holiday hangover. You know, when all the excitement is over and you are coming down from indulging in all the things — the food, the drinks, the family, the shopping, the music — and you are left staggering down the stairs on January 2 wondering what the fuck you did to yourself.

I reach for my leggings knowing full well jeans of any kind are just going to tell me to fuck off today (and every other day for the next few months). My eyes resemble piss holes in the snow from all the carbs — the salty ones, the sweet ones. I decided sometime around Columbus Day a little extra love in my handles wouldn’t hurt me. But today it hurts me, a lot.

I gave in and bought every nut known to man. The empty eggnog containers I schlepped to the recycling center were delivered in two trips because I was too embarrassed to take them all at once. I mean, who drinks 14 gallons of eggnog? A woman trying to create a festive atmosphere every damn moment, that’s who.

I baked until I couldn’t stand up. I singed my eyelashes and made out with the mixing bowl after every batch of cookies that went into the oven. I still have cookie dough in my hair.

The house is adorned with bows and bits of wrapping paper. There is fucking glitter everywhere although I have not bought glitter in three years, maybe four. Why is everything that has to do with the holidays coated in glitter? It is getting in my already-puffy eyeballs.

The advent calendar that hangs on the wall which was once swollen with chocolate deliciousness in each pocket, waiting to be plucked and enjoyed each day, looks saggy and alone. Kind of like me.

Our Christmas tree has approximately 10 needles left. Each time someone would drop by to spread holiday cheer, I would immediately get the fireplace going for ambience, but now it looks petrified and is drier than a 100-year-old fruit cake, kind of like my skin.

The pantry is overflowing with shit we don’t need like cheese balls, chocolate-covered cherries, and some kind of yule log. I should get up from my holiday haze and sweep it all into the trash, but I can tell I am coming down hard and going to need just a little nip of something to get me through when the shakes and sweats start to come on, which will be any second now. Because let’s face it, when it comes to food, the more you shove in your face, the more you want. I wonder if there is any eggnog left in the bottom of one of those cartons. A little hair of the dog, that will do the trick.

Yes, a holiday cleanse might work for some, but people who cleanse after filling their guts full of red meat, gravy, and gingerbread are just asking for an epic meltdown in aisle six of the grocery store. Also, they are much better than me. I am not emotionally prepared to deprive myself of food after the holidays. I’m also not prepared to camp out on the toilet for three days. I need something to look forward to now that all the cheer and festivities are over.

I am wrecked, my bones are tired, and I am hoarse from all the Fa-la-la-la-la-ing. I woke up with the intention of getting stuff done today. There is shit I should be purging, glitter I should be vacuuming, and New Year’s resolutions I should be making, but all these intentions are going in the shitter, and I am too hungover to care.

Holidays hangovers are real. Give yourself time to recover. Screw the cleanse, only make resolutions if you want to, and stock up on the leggings. Give your denim a respite. Maybe by March I will stop mourning the holidays, have my shit together, and be able to slip on a pair of those fuckers, but probably not. Until then I will be over here crying, picking cookie dough out of my hair, counting down the days until I can start this overindulgent charade all over again.