Well, I spoke way too soon about avoiding the scoff your face/ develop instant pot belly! Hey its CHRISTMAS, right?! And I had to self-medicate with extra helpings of well, everything, after being stung by a mysterious- and quite large- insect in my bed, yes, in my bed, at 6 am. Cue half-asleep hysterics, almost throwing up from the adrenalin rush (or maybe that was the beer…) and having to get into mum’s bed as I was too scared to get back in mine. Joy the world, and all that!
Speaking of self-medicating, I have given myself the gift of sitting on my arse all day and moaning, due to not just massive period pains but also a slight hangover, or ‘bust head’ in old(ish) English parlance. It is after all, Frazzled Friday, according to that bastion of truth and accuracy, the Daily Mail; apparently this means we’ve spent too long with family, compromising what to watch on TV (the study was commissioned by some company trying to plug personalized movie downloads into our bloodstreams or something) and having hernias over not being able to fit into our clothes. I’m with them on that last one. Oh and the ‘no money in the bank for January, FAAAAAK’ bit. Maybe they really are a bastion of truth after all. Though signing up for that film service isn’t exactly going to help the bank balance.
Anyway the PMS suffering means I have something ‘real’ to moan and feel sorry for myself about, because if its self-inflicted, there goes your sympathy vote. I spent a few hours in A&E once with a raging hangover trying to muscle my way in on some treatment, only to be shunted to the back of the queue while people with football/ DIY injuries (i.e. men) got seen first. Which is pretty unfair since they are also technically self-inflicted, due to stupidity or clumsiness. But, the logic goes, you had fun, you deserve to suffer; now get back to self-flagellating about your unproductive day, the inappropriate behavior you can just about remember and your general, all-round Badness. Or I don’t know, do something worthy like alphabetically organising your bookcase to make up for your transgressions.
Or don’t actually; research has shown that hangovers are much worse if you jump on the guilt and anxiety band wagon. Being hungover without feeling bad about it is a great skill and one I try to practice these days; I think of it as an extension of my meditation routine. Every time my mind clings to re-running a cringe-worthy conversation, unhelpful overshare or shouty rant, I try to label it as ‘wanting to feel bad about something’ even though whatever it is usually Not That Big a Deal. (There are exceptions to this of course, where, no matter how you angle the mirror you still end up looking like an idiot, in which case, well, commiserations.)
So why do we find ourselves ruminating and stressing over these minor faux pas, when it clearly doesn’t help? It might be that endlessly worrying about things gives a false, but comforting, sense of control over the situation, like you’re ‘taking action’ in some way. Like, maybe if I worry about it enough, the issue/ hangover will go away! Yeah- worry your problems away! Hmm, doesn’t sound too convincing. In my experience, when I was anxious about everything I had truly horrendous, epic hangovers. Nowadays, apart from the anxiety bit, they hardly register; with the aid of a rehydration sachet (my secret weapon for pretty much any ailment) I even go for jogs. Of course the down side is that I no longer have a good reason to not go out three nights in a row or to rein in the boozing; after all, if there’s no stinking hangover to contend with, what’s the problem?