The year: 2003. Interior: Bar. A fresh doe-eyed 21 year-old Tim is seen drinking on a Thursday night. It’s dollar beer night and there isn’t a worry in the world. It’s obvious that Tim has had a few too many as he is seen dancing with his arms above his head - a feat that no sober man would dare try. A few hours later Tim stumbles out of the bar onto the street, trying to catch his bearings as he isn’t sure which way is north or south. 2003 Tim looks at his badass Fossil watch, it’s 3 am. Minutes later he has a bag of White Castle in his hand, a rookie mistake to say the least, but incredibly impressive that it seemed to appear out of thin air. At 4am, Tim makes it to his house, White Castle eaten, and passes out on the bed. 2 hours later an alarm sounds, Tim springs up, takes a shower and nonchalantly dresses for the day. He’s excited as it’s Friday now, and he can drink again.
Delorean time machine to 2014. Friday night. Interior: Bar. Tim carefully eyes beer number three. “I think this is about it, I don’t want to have a hangover tomorrow.” It’s 11pm, time to go home. Tim gets to the house, pops two Advil, and drinks four bottles of water. He’s knocked out by midnight. Saturday morning comes around and Tim is slow to get up, groggy and tired. The dry mouth and feeling of queasiness overcomes his stomach. “Why did I go for three beers last night? Should have just had the two…ughhhhhhhh.” Sunday. Interior: Tim’s house. Tim is seen slowly getting up yet again, this time, no alcohol involved at all. The three beers from Saturday still effecting him.
When in the blue hell did I turn into that guy?! Gone are the days of springing into action and being perfectly ok with running 2 miles in the morning. Now, it’s at least 48 hours of sipping on Sprite before I feel the urge to even think about a treadmill. Gone are the days of McDonald’s breakfast. Was this a one, two, or three hashbrown hangover? My God those little brown potato discs were fantastic. Now, it’s trying to muster up the courage to get to my own fridge in hopes that I have something – anything – that resembles food. I now have hangovers so long that I could probably claim one on my taxes.
I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation on why hangovers get worse with age. I’m sure it has to do with your organs getting older or taking longer to process the garbage that is alcohol, but I’m no Bill Nye. Still, there must be scientists out there somewhere working on a miracle cure for these bad boys, right? I can watch porn on my phone yet can’t drink without a splitting headache? We put a man on the moon! Neil deGrasse Tyson has a show on TV! How is it possible that someone out there doesn’t have a miracle elixir? How is possible that the only real cure for a hangover is water and time?
Yesterday, during the series premiere of ‘The Cosmos’, President Obama challenged us when he said, “America has always been a nation of fearless explorers who dream big and reach farther than others imagine. Today we’re doing everything we can to bring that same sense of possibility to a new generation, because there are new frontiers to explore and we need Americans eager to explore them.” I echo this statement to today’s youth. I am eager to try your hangover cure when I am older and drinking one solitary drop of alcohol could kill me. I hope that your grandchildren's grandchildren will never have to suffer through a spinning bed room. I believe in America, and I believe that the future is bright. Not too bright though, because it hurts my eyes right now.