...But There's A Hangover On The Horizon

There are 168 hours in a week. 56 of which we should be sleeping if we have our suggested 8 hours per night (honestly, who has time for that!), another 40 is usually spent at work (yet, noone has a basic 9-5 job anymore; we'd all much prefer to have some outside-of-the-box profession demanding 13 hours a day's commitment, and that doesn't matter because we are now a Certified Ambassador to the Central Ideas Institution of Australian Freelancers*). If you're a woman, another 16 hours out of the week is taken up by applying makeup, straightening, curling, spraying....and then another 16 taking it off and washing it out. If you're a man, those 32 hours are taken up by scratching, shaving and eating. A lot. Well, a lot of scratching and eating, anyway. Out of our 168 hours, there are then left a total of 40 hours for ourselves. Just 40 to be domestic, cook, transport ourselves and press the snooze button. Why then, if our remaining hours of the week are so few and far between, must we insist on spending it effectively dying after a sleepless night's effort getting staggeringly drunk? We have given up sleep time in favour of pushing ourselves to the point where inebriation is just a jumping off point for the rest of the evening. We have traded the opportunity to get those elusive 8 hours of rest and going for picnics, or horse riding or some other amazing outdoor activity which involves effort and sunscreen. But for some reason, it is not until we are face first in the pillows or couch cushions that we go "I should not have done whatever it was that I did last night". And then to make matters worse, our bank balances have suddenly shrunk like man-parts in the ocean.

This money could be committed elsewhere, but we spend a good chunk of our slaved hours not put away in savings or contributing to the wellbeing of the community, but on cocktails and shots designed to render us useless for any premeditated activity the next day. Sport, family and even the idea of eating properly are traded in for side lines, hot chips and heads in toilets. But why do we do it? Why do we waste money and stay out till our eyes are ready to fall out of our heads, and when we know that it's only going to end in nausea, headaches and greasy food? "Be young!" they say, "enjoy life!" they say. Well, it's not much of a life if our weekends are spent trying to sleep off the resounding feeling of inevitable death and dehydration. Whichever comes first. Sometimes we even impose bans on ourselves, but there is always one particular friend or workmate who sidles up to you, gives you that grin and says "so, going out this weekend?" "no….no…no…okay". It's not a contract; you can get out of it easily by saying "hey, i've changed my mind, i'll see you on Monday". For some reason, though, the guilt kicks in, and the peer-pressure is back, just like that one time you were forced to drag on that cigarette or have your first taste of boxed wine. And then you have to go out, or you'll suddenly be friendless and alone with your knitting.

*NB: 'Certified Ambassador to the Central Ideas Institution of Australian Freelancers' is not a real job title. Please do not try to pursue it as a career. Or Google it.