Save Me From Myself

Scheduling a hangover and putting a hydration clinic to the test.

- Adam Rhew

IF, IN THESE DIVIDED TIMES, we can agree on certain things, surely one of them is this: Wine hangovers are the worst.

I reach this conclusion around sunrise on a Friday in November, as the whirring blades of my bedroom ceiling fan match the beat of the pounding at my temples. I roll over and hold a cool glass to my flushed cheeks. I contemplate breakfast, but I am not there yet.

Before you feel sorry for me, I should say that my state is self-inflicted and intentional.

Last night—first at a philanthropic benefit with red wine and later at uptown bars with prosecco and bourbon—I intentionally tried to incite this awful hangover. The plan was to test the services at Dilworth’s Hydrate Medical, a company that promises to treat symptoms such as mine with IV fluids and vitamins.

I’d heard of similar hydration clinics in Las Vegas and knew of a few friends who had to duck into one to recover from a bachelorette party. Since I turned 30, my recovery time from a night on the town has, shall we say, been a little sluggish. My normal hangover cure—a fried chicken biscuit, hash browns, ibuprofen, Gatorade, and a hot shower, in that order—doesn’t cut it anymore.

So, I scheduled a hangover and made an appointment for 10 a.m., which is … Oh my goodness, that’s two-and-a-half hours from now. Why the hell did I volunteer to write this story? How will I make it till then?

Wine hangovers are the worst.

My mouth is sticky and I prop myself up in bed for a sip of water.