Burying a hangover

Awhile back, a friend of Italian descent was describing, to me, the tradition that takes place in their family at family gatherings and holidays at meal time.  Whether your hungry or not, your plate is continuously replenished as is your wine glass, so that neither is ever empty.

This Saturday past I reenacted that tradition, at least as far as the wine glass never being allowed to empty goes.

I learned long ago that as I've gained in years my tolerance for alcohol diminishes in inverse proportion to my age.  But after a certain amount of libation has entered the blood steam the mind's ability to recall those experiences becomes dulled and common sense is put to sleep in favor of the fleeting moments of euphoria.

The following morning, suffering from Acetaldehyde (ethanal) poisoning, I attempted various cures; two aspirin tablets washed down with strong French Roast dark roast coffee, breakfast of boiled eggs and toast.  But to little avail.  Time seems to be the only reliable treatment and  that takes, well, time.

It being Sunday, it's the day for my long run in my training for a half marathon event in one month's time.

I did not feel like running.

After my wife said she'd jog with me, I decided to chase my hangover for a few miles and see if I couldn't bury it in exercise.. I gave it a name, Kooker Witherhead and dragged it 4 miles up to the cemetery and therein buried it.  I returned home feeling much revived and swearing to never let that happen again.

That's what I said last time..................................