My poor personal blog has been neglected over the last couple of years. Quitting a corporate job, opening Grave Distractions Publications, and writing two books will put a damper on writing for fun. However this morning I awoke with an old familiar friend that needed to be written about. Given the title of this posting one might think I had a rip roaring time last night. Nothing could be further from the truth. Laura and I spend a rather sedate evening having dinner with some friends and returning home at 8:30 for a sedate rest of the night. Midnight came and left without a drop of anything drank stronger than the Turkish coffee that capped off our meal.
Bedtime came and the next morning I was visited by the ghosts of New Year's Day past. I affectionately like to think of my mid-20's as the "Lost Years" and days like New Year's came with the price carousing until closing time comes with. The residual imprint of those alcohol soaked days must have stayed with me, because most New Years' mornings I awaken with the beginnings of a hangover.
There is a space of roughly ten seconds that elapses between the time one wakes up and the point in which one remembers what happened the night before. The first two seconds are blissfully devoid of complex cognition. One simply recognizes that Morpheus has been dispelled for the rigors of the waking world. The three second mark is where one realizes this morning’s wake up is markedly different than most normal mornings and a self-diagnostic is called for. The fourth second is spent channeling every ounce of energy into the opening of one’s eyes. You don’t recall having your human eyes being replaced with a reptile’s, but that is the only logical explanation since your field of vision is restricted to tiny slits. Seconds five and six are reserved for feeling about your body to insure no other Kafkaesque changes have occurred while you slept. If one is truly lucky there are no contusions or lacerations to impede one’s introspection, but something is not quite right. Seven seconds in you meet the thousand tiny men wearing golf shoes and Pickelhauben are break dancing in your cranium. By the eighth second you have gained enough control over your brand new iguana eyes to take visual stock of your surroundings. Fortune favors those who are in their own bed and frowns upon those who are someplace else. Reservations have been made for the, “What did I do last night” question during second number nine and precisely at the stroke of ten one’s mind fires up an unsavory Powerpoint presentation.
Thankfully the panic was only the imprint past cocktails have left on my DNA. I wondered how many people woke up this morning with the "10 seconds before the hangover hits" if their actions last night were worth the price of admission. My misadventures rarely were and I'm glad something of my inner psyche gives me a periodic taste of how good the boring life actually can be...