Life at 45: Hangovers Without Alcohol

My, how my life has changed.

Let’s look at a typical Friday in the life of Brian Gregg at…

Age 20:  Every college student who likes to get his “party on” schedules classes to end as early as possible on Fridays. If I could have somehow taken all the classes I needed to get my journalism degree on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I would have.

I’d meet up with my roommates early Friday afternoon and bust out a “suitcase” of Old Milwaukee. Every group of young guys has that “go-to” cheap beer that they rely on when money is a factor. Old Mildoggy was ours.

If it was nice out, we played wiffle ball in the yard of our apartment complex while polishing off our brews. I was the king of hitting Bonds-esque homers over the building across the complex. Let’s face it, I had a Barry Bonds-like physique – at least in the later, blown-up, steroid-scandal, Michelin Man years.

Wiffle ball was always cool, but we mostly invented our own games to keep us occupied while drinking.  We had something called “handy ball,” which consisted of batting a Nerf basketball around while drinking.  Think volleyball without a net. The person who let the ball fall needed to guzzle.

In our dorm room, we invented a baseball game that used a crushed beer can as a ball. We wore real baseball gloves and used a makeshift bat to hit the can. It is amazing what you can do with beer cans. Someone I know made a coffee table out of Old Milwaukee cans. They also make great Christmas tree ornaments.

We’d jam Springsteen while we played. These were the years of Madonna and Prince, but my roommate, Pat, turned me on to Springsteen and I wanted to be a little harder than my 20-year-old counterparts. Material Girl, my ass.

About 11, we’d head to the bars. We spent part of our freshman and sophomore years doing cheap happy hours where we would drink 5-cent cups of Black Label (a Canadian beer, I think) for hours, but quickly realized this life was not for us after several nights ended by 11 p.m. with us lying in bed holding a trash can to our face.

Down at the bars, we’d make our play for “ladies.” This generally consisted of standing around talking to the few female friends we had (we rarely were bold enough to migrate outside our own circle) hoping we could convince one to go home with us. About once every two months or so, we’d get lucky.

On the way home, we’d spend our last $2 on a gyro from a guy who probably put three children through college by running a food cart outside the Kent State bars. Then we’d do an after party and drink Old Milwaukees until we passed out.

The next day, I usually had a hangover.

Age 25: This was my golden age. No longer bound by the constraints of money and not yet held down by the affects of age, I spent my 20s living a Hugh Hefner lifestyle. Blessed with a shift where I covered the police beat from 2 p.m. to 10 p.m, I was able to do all that a young man should do: get off work in time to go to the bars, party all night, sleep late and spend my mornings playing basketball and softball to stay in shape. I worked in a one-man news bureau my first year and even had a cot in the office so I could take a nap if I had a particularly tough night.

My buddies and I would spend our Friday nights at a place called the Quark, grooving to tunes that would make Springsteen cry. Hammer Time. Ice, Ice Baby. I like big butts and I cannot lie… Sorry, Boss.

Most of us would stand at the edge of the dance floor and hope some woman we barely knew would be drunk enough to take a liking to us. I hoped for slow dances, because my actual dancing resembled an epileptic seizure.

About once a month, we’d get lucky.

On the way home, we’d hit up Uncle Nick’s gyros to eat while watching late night television until we passed out.

The next day, I usually had a hangover.

Age 30: Age starts taking its toll on me here. I can no longer treat a weeknight like a Friday night because the next day at work feels like a ride on a Kings Island roller coaster. Also, despite my once-a-week basketball games, the pounds start to accumulate toward Michelin Man status.

I’m back to doing happy hours. That’s because I hope to be in bed by midnight, although most of the time I still see closing time. I’m mostly hanging in bars that play classic rock, because the music of the mid-1990s was horrendous. Mariah Carey? Celine Dion? The freaking Macarena??? Put a bullet in my head. 

I’m also back to primarily hitting on women who are somehow in my circle. Women at this age usually want to have some knowledge of who the guy is before they head home with him. I’m getting lucky about once every two months, just like in college.

On the way home from the bars, I stop at the sandwich cart for a barbeque pork sandwich, mostly to suck up the alcohol. I hit the bed as soon as I walk in the door and hope for the best the next morning. If I mixed in enough glasses of water throughout the night, I avoid the hangover.

Age 35: Girlfriends have always come and gone, but at this age, I am doing a lot more “dating.” Let’s face it, that is the only way I am getting lucky. Friday nights consist of a nice dinner, glasses of wine, maybe a trip to a comedy club or to hear some live music. I’m getting lucky almost every other weekend! Of course, with the same woman or two.

I don’t eat on the way home because I already stuff too many calories into this body. I’m usually in bed by midnight. Hangovers are rarely a problem.

Age 40: Serious girlfriend time. Dating a girl 15 years my junior. That means returning to my glory years. Pretty much guaranteed getting lucky every weekend!

I start each Friday with a pre-game at her or her friend’s house, drinking a higher-class beer than Old Milwaukee, usually some micro-brew that makes me look cool to her friends who are still drinking cheap beer because that is all they can afford. We head out to some dance club and listen to horrible music. Justin Timberlake? John Mayer?  Who the hell is Jesse McCartney? Was that Justin Bieber’s older brother?

We make it to closing time most weekends. On the way home, we hit Taco Bell. This is fun. But I am too old for this. It only takes a few months for me to say, “Honey, how about if you go out with your friends by yourself and I will be here when you get home.” Then I watch TV and hit the sack after the 11 p.m. SportsCenter. No drinks, no hangover.

Age 45: Well, here it is.

I get home from work about 5:30 and my wife wants to know if we should order a pizza. The big debate is if we have enough money for something like that. Every penny counts now. Bars are out of the question.  

Music? The only music we listen to are the lullabies that play on Sydney’s swing. Getting lucky? Yeah, like back in college, about every two months. Who has the energy?

I spend my evening playing with my daughter, trying to keep her stimulated and away from crying. This usually requires my total attention, so there is not a lot of time for say, writing a blog post, or watching a DVR-d episode of Man vs. Food, which, at this point, I could star in and win every challenge.

My wife and I pass her back and forth like a football, sharing the "stimulating duties." For some reason, she is generally quiet and happy when my wife has her. I get the screaming and crying Sydney. Roses for Brooke, thorns for Brian.

We get to bed whenever we get to bed. My daughter sets her own schedule. She usually sleeps a couple hours and then is up a couple of hours. All day long. All...night...long.

I never leave the house, yet I am worn the hell out.

The next day, I have a “baby” hangover.

Diapers Have Fronts and Backs?

My first night alone with Sydney ended with my wife arriving home to find two dirty diapers on the coffee table and her daughter dressed in only her diaper and half an onesie.

But at least Sydney was alive. I’m pretty certain Brooke was concerned that might not be the case.

She attended a wedding on her own. It was not that we couldn’t find a babysitter.  I wasn’t invited. One of her friends tried to be conservative with the guest list in order to control costs and I did not make the cut.

A lesser man would be offended by this. But you have to realize, inherently, I am a lazy person. If given the choice between dressing up, sitting through a long church service, talking to people I do not know and dancing to Celine Dion or lying on the couch watching ESPN in shorts and a t-shirt, I think you know what will get my check mark every time.

So I became the babysitter. Although when it is your kid, you really can’t call it babysitting. In fact, it is a little insulting to dads. Nobody ever says a mom is babysitting. We dads are considered a bit incompetent when it comes to caring for our own children, so we are placed on the same level as babysitters.

A lesser man would be offended by this.

The night started uneventful, with Sydney sleeping for a couple of hours. But then it was feeding time.  Brooke had pumped ahead of time, so I was ready. I’ve been doing a few feedings here and there for weeks, so this part of the night went smoothly.

But then, a bit of trouble. I checked her diaper and there was some nastiness down there. Up until this point, Brooke had been the primary diaper changer in our house. She doesn’t have a lot of patience for fools, and if she sees I am not so good at something, she just takes it on herself. Why teach a man to fish? My diaper duty pretty much ended the day I put one on backwards. I did not even know there were fronts and backs to diapers!

Now, alone by myself, the pressure was on. I managed to put this one on frontwards, but when I went to tape the sides together, I pulled the tape right off the diaper. Strike one. I grabbed a second diaper, lined it up right, gently pulled the tape and managed to get everything right. Except, when I lifted her up, it sagged deeply.  Not tight enough. Oh well, why waste another diaper? Let’s roll with it.

About an hour later, that became a big mistake. I heard a rumbling that turned into an explosion. I scrambled to contain it, hugging the sides tight to her body so nothing spilled out. I actually did ok. But I made sure the next diaper fit her like a Kim Kardashian sweater. Tight.   

My wife is deeply involved in my daughter’s bowel movements. The doctors tell us this is a way to ensure the baby is eating right…count the bowel movements. Take a look at them to see the texture and color. No thanks, doc. Sounds like a job for the wife. So, to assist Brooke with her mission, I left both diapers open, sitting on the coffee table. The only one happy with this was the dogs, who got to sniff a new smell for the rest of the night.

Meanwhile, in between two diaper changes, I had to take on and off her clothes. Most days, Sydney doesn’t even leave the house. Why does she even need clothes? Sydney doesn’t like socks. She kicks them off. She doesn’t like pants either. Well, her dad doesn’t. He doesn’t have the patience to put them on and take them off. Her legs are always getting caught up in them, especially those pajamas with footies in them. So, I made an executive decision and the socks and pants were ditched. Then, I unbuttoned the onesie at the bottom and pushed it above her waist to give me easier access to check the diapers. She essentially sat around in a diaper and a t-shirt the rest of the night. This would not make my wife happy. But who cares? She was sipping wine, eating wedding cake and dancing to Celine Dion.  

By the way, my wife called twice in six hours to check on me. Like I said, there’s not a lot of faith there. A lesser man would be offended. One of her calls came while Sydney was in the middle of what would be a two-hour crying jag. I practically hung up on her. I’m sure that inspired confidence, but I was a little stressed. No time for niceties.

In fact, that crying jag was the worst part of the night. My solution to these things is to move Sydney from position to position until she is comfortable and quits crying. I’ll hold her like a football, put her over my shoulder, cradle her, set her down flat, prop her up….anything to get the crying to stop. Unfortunately, we didn’t seem to find a comfortable position that night. She basically cried until she ALMOST fell asleep.

Oh, yes….sleep. My job was to keep her up until her late-night feeding, at about 11 p.m. We’ve discovered she sleeps better at night if we keep her up from her dinner feeding until her late-night feeding. This is not as easy as it sounds. You could stand four feet apart and throw her back and forth like a basketball and she could sleep through it. I have even used an ice cube to help keep her awake. It only works half the time. When a baby is tired, a baby sleeps.

So, keeping her awake was one of my jobs that night. Mission accomplished…thanks to my singing, my making her dance and my doing many other things that annoyed her enough to keep her crying because I wouldn't let her sleep.

So Brooke came home to find that her baby was not only alive, but awake. As ordered. Did I get a thank you? Heck no. She was more concerned with the dirty diapers on the coffee table and the lack of clothing on our daughter.

A lesser man would have been offended.