The Secret to Beating a Hangover

The Experience of a Hangover

After a friend’s grooms’ dinner, which involved drinking kegs of beer, copious amounts of gin, and bottles of cheap wine, I woke up with a hangover so severe that the world seemed to vibrate. It wasn’t a fun kind of vibration. I had overindulged, had too good a time, and was paying the price. The following day, the day of my friend’s wedding, was all about survival—avoiding vomiting, managing the headache, and staying upright. I managed to make it through and then slept nearly the entire day until the hangover faded.

This incident happened in my twenties. Today, at forty-four, a night like that would likely be far more dangerous for me.

You’ve probably experienced a hangover, which is often referred to as a “virtually pandemic ailment.” Maybe it happened to you decades ago or even this morning. You meet a friend for a beer, expecting just two drinks—and hoping to be home by 10 p.m. The music is great, the conversation is even better, and the first two drinks go down smoothly. So why not a third? A fourth? Sure, it’s Wednesday; tomorrow isn’t too busy. A shot? Why not? A cigarette? I haven’t smoked in years—I’d love one! You know this will end badly, but you do it anyway.

You’ve felt the physical discomfort—headache, nausea, and fatigue—as well as the anxiety and existential dread that can come with it. A few years ago, there was a story about a particularly bad strain of hangover called "Hangxiety." It's said to be related to the balance of chemicals in your brain. As your brain readjusts after a night of drinking to sing "Bring Him Home" at karaoke (you thought Les Mis would be easy?), you may become a real drag to be around.

It can lead to a shame spiral: did you really say that last night? You had to be a big shot, didn’t you? In what I consider the greatest piece of literature ever written about a hangover, Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis, the main character wakes up to find he’s become a cockroach. That’s no coincidence.

There have been multiple stories about curing a hangover, including the science behind it, the best food and drink to overcome one, the chef's guide to beating the ill effects of a boozy night, and Anthony Bourdain's advice for treating the problem. He suggested things like aspirin, cold Coca Cola, smoking a joint, and eating some spicy Szechuan food. Try whichever method you like, but I've found there's no shortcut. The only remedy for me is time and sleep. That means you'll need a healthy dose of grit to get through the next day.

Unfortunately, the world doesn't cater to hangovers like it once did. As John Berendt noted in an article, F. Scott Fitzgerald, a former contributor, said that in the 1920s "the hangover became a part of the day as well-allowed-for as the Spanish siesta." In fact, it couldn't be a worse time to have one. We live in the wellness era. We're confronted with lifestyle gurus and fitness influencers telling us to eat more protein, spend hours taking long walks, sleep eight hours, and avoid alcohol. Something appeared in my Instagram feed the other day showing the wrinkled and weary face of a man in his forties who drinks occasionally and that of the same man when he skips alcohol. I assume AI created the images, which were meant to sell me something, so you can imagine the stark difference between the two pictures. But my prevailing thought was: I bet the youthful looking AI guy is a bore.

It isn't just vibes. According to a new Gallup poll, the percentage of Americans who drink has fallen to 54 percent—the lowest point in the 90 years Gallup has tracked boozing trends. Like all things in America today, there's a political divide. Only 46 percent of Republicans drink compared with 60 percent of Democrats. The popularity of mocktails is surging; liquor sales are declining as non-alcoholic beer flourishes; cannabis products are taking the place of a stiff drink or a cold beer. As a result, fewer people are experiencing the physical and existential pain of a hangover.

This should be good news. Hangovers suck, and the fewer of them you have, the better (and probably longer) your life will be. But that doesn’t mean you should avoid them at all costs. The occasional hangover is neither shameful nor wrong. (The word "occasional" is important.) It is the painful remembrance of a good time. For one night, you ignored the annoying emails and crushing responsibilities, enjoyed time with friends, maybe made new ones, possibly got laid. The hangover was worth it.

And remember, you’re not alone in feeling this way. “Hangovers were an honorable, even heroic, ordeal,” Berendt wrote. “All the best people had them.” I imagine the Allies planned and fought World War II with hangovers. David Wells pitched a perfect game for the Yankees while “massively hungover.” Conspiracy theorists have suggested Michael Jordan’s famous flu game was less the result of a bug—or nefarious food poisoning—and more the effects of a long night drinking at the card table. Meanwhile, three of the four U.S. presidents during the 21st century—George W. Bush, Trump, and Biden—have been teetotalers. Only one, Obama, may have governed with a hangover. Maybe that explains why we live in such chaotic times.

A hangover will teach you valuable lessons, maybe earn you a little wisdom. According to Kingsley Amis, the hangover is “a (fortunately) unique route to self-knowledge and self-realization.” Quite simply, you’ll learn how to sidestep one in the future. (Got it—four martinis is a bad idea.) More importantly, you’ll teach yourself self-preservation. If you made the unwise decision to throw back a few too many the night before a big meeting, you cannot call in sick. You must endure the pain, fortify yourself with medicine and caffeine, and perform at your very best. Then you can make this hard-earned knowledge work for you in circumstances well beyond a nasty hangover.

Last Sunday, after a long weekend in Edinburgh, Scotland with friends, I woke up with a throbbing head, a gurgling belly, and a crushing exhaustion. I had twelve hours of travel ahead of me. A busy airport is no place to nurse a hangover, but I had no choice. So I swallowed two Aleve, chocked down a coffee, and soldiered on. The security line felt like a forced march, the buzz of hurried people worsened my headache, the turbulence turned my stomach. But as I nodded off in my seat, I remembered why I felt this way—a buoyant and life-affirming getaway with old friends. And when I got home that night, having survived the trip, I felt heroic.

Next time, however, I’ll probably skip the fifth Scotch whiskey.