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Hangover 101 It’s gotta be the hair of the dog that actually bit you BY SARA HAVENS AKA THE BAR BELLE
don’t necessarily want to be one of those people who complain about aging and share intimate digestion details with strangers in Target, but I think I might be headed that way.
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Fact 1: I’m getting old. Fact 2: I don’t like it. There is no finer example of how aging affects the body than examining the hangover. That fun little dose of instant karma after a night of debauchery only gets worse over the years, and while I remain shocked every time it happens, I now consider myself an expert in the field. Oh, I remember those days … when your knees bent without clicking, when you ate pizza every night and never gained a pound, and when you could stay out until 2 a.m. and still make it to work on time with nary a bloodshot eye or pounding head to be found. I could think even after a drink, I could write even after staying up all night, I could even schmooze after all that booze. But those days are long gone. I remember it was shortly after my 28th birthday when I noticed “The Change.” I had stayed out about three hours too long on a weeknight thinking and drinking, and when my alarm sounded that next morning, there was an elephant sitting on my head. I’m not talking cute little Dumbo. This was a full-grown male African bush elephant. And there weren’t enough McDonald’s french fries and Diet Coke to get him off me for most of the day. But I forged ahead. There were happy hours and pub crawls and rum-soaked vacations to partake in, and I simply adapted 12 Fall 2021 www.foodanddine.com
to my body’s shade-throwing. I drank more water before bed, I took my vitamins, and I banned Goldschlager, Red Bull and shots after midnight. Unfortunately, about a decade later as I was approaching a soft landing into my 40s, there was more terrible turbulence. This time — after swinging from the chandeliers — the male African bush elephant found himself a mate, and the two cozied up together … on my head. Sometimes it would take days to get rid of the happy couple. Channeling my inner Erin Brockovich, I wanted to figure out why this, well, um, poison was poisoning me. I started reading about the millions of remedies, tricks and secrets that promised to tame the beast. And it brought me back to the simple phrase: Hair of the dog that bit you. We say it so often, but what does it mean? Well, I’m here to impart some knowledge -- and maybe one day help you in trivia. It refers to an age-old belief that if you got bit by a rabid dog, you should put some of the dog’s hairs in the wound to prevent bad things from happening. Sounds kinda gross to me, but there are actually similar expressions in just about every country across the globe — and these days, they’re referencing the cruel, inhumane hangover, not the scary, mouth-foaming Cujo (look it up, millennials). In other words, when you wake up in the morning with two elephants on your head, drink what you consumed the night before and they’ll likely leave you for the circus. In essence, the solution to the problem is imbibing more of the problem. I never said science made sense. A few months ago, I put this phrase to the test — but it definitely wasn’t on purpose. I was at a destination wedding in Ft.