This morning I am desperately hung over, and I'm glad.
This hangover was earned one more bear by one more bear—actually, beer, but you see what I'm dealing with here—talking with a speechwriter pal who will go unnamed because not everybody brags about their hangovers and maybe I'm prouder to be hungover from drinking with him than he is of being hungover from drinking with me. Did that sentence make any sense at all?
The speechwriter, who is passing through Chicago, spent the night here. We're off to breakfast in a little while—that's going to be silly—and I have three writing deadlines today, and a four-mile training run too. (A half-marathon coming up.)
If I ever quit drinking, and I hope I never do, I'll miss the hangovers as much as the buzz. Hangovers give you something to overcome. They're a "good sore" after an honest night—if it really was an honest night, and last night was an honest night.
And when they're over with, they let you get well again without having exactly been sick, let you feel springtime again without suffering a whole winter, let you live again after having briefly died.
People who don't drink never get to feel like that, and I feel sorry for them, even this morning, as I feel sorry for myself.