26 & Counting: I Have Hangxiety

26 & Counting: I Have Hangxiety


by Zoe Beaty |
Published on

I have hangxiety.

I’m tired, I have wine eyes (squinty, a bit dry and obviously peppered with flecks of last night’s make-up) and I’ve felt slightly sick all day.

Last night I went out for a civilised Thursday drink, which ended with someone pouring tequila straight into my mouth and, later, face-planting the concrete as I tried to walk home. The night reached a low point when an old man approached me and asked if I would like ‘some help crossing the road, dear.’ There wasn’t even any traffic.

Miraculously, I got up this morning feeling fine. My knees were as battered as me the night before but I didn’t have a headache, I didn’t feel sick. I couldn’t find my glasses, but left anyway reasoning that they were probably in the fridge (true story of hangovers past) or in still in bed. Physically I felt great - I had made it out the door without being sick - yet I was also plagued by an overwhelming feeling that the world might implode and that nothing good could, or would, ever happen again.

The hangxiety hit as I spotted the kerb I fell off and ripped my pleather trousers on the night before. There, lying helplessly by the pavement, were the remnants of my specs. They must have fallen off mid-fall without me realising and, after a night on the tiles as rough as mine, had been reduced to a single, battered arm - the collateral damage of my night; a tortoiseshell wreck by the road side.

26 & Counting... Hanxiety fails.
26 & Counting... Hanxiety fails.

By the time I’d reached the tube I was nearing a full-blown breakdown. I channelled most of it into an irrational rage at Transport for London for failing to provide Friday blankets for the elderly and severely hung-over. On the journey into work, inevitably the unanswerable questions began: what was I saying? What time did I leave? Where is the nearest bacon? Who saw me? Dear God, was I talking about pubes?

About an hour later, the guilt set in. Guilt for the ridiculous things I said, guilt for being home late, for spending all my money, for not going to the gym, guilt for feeling guilty. I’ve spent the rest of the day like a vagarious teenager. One minute I’m laughing maniacally about pineapple, the next I want to sob and hide. The party is over, and all I’ve gained is impressively bruised knees and a highly complex emotional state.

What’s baffling me is that I can’t remember feeling like this when I was younger - and what’s worrying me (aside from the rest of my existential breakdown) is that, from now on, this might happen forever more. It used to be all headaches and burgers, now a hangover means I'm contemplating the meaning of my life. Is the emotional hangover the new vom? (Is this the end?)

I'll leave you to figure it out whilst I source the office bean bag to think about where everything went wrong.

Just so you know, whilst we may receive a commission or other compensation from the links on this website, we never allow this to influence product selections - read why you should trust us