The Social Hangover: Why One Family Gathering = Three Business Days of Recovery

I did a thing.

I put on jeans. Yes, actual denim. Not “leggings that whisper about being pants if you squint hard enough.” Real jeans. Then, because apparently I like to cosplay as a functioning human, I added makeup. First time in two years. Even did my hair. Honestly, I could’ve stopped there and deserved a medal.

But no, I had a mission: drive three hours each way to see my sister, hand-deliver the painstakingly perfected gifts I’d been working on for weeks, and socialize with more humans than my hermit soul has encountered in… possibly a decade for my sister and grand niece.

Let me tell you, the event itself? Lovely. The invite? Appreciated. The people? Wonderful. The food? Chef’s kiss. My energy afterward? Dead. Buried. Ghosted.

Here’s the unglamorous math nobody tells you:

• Prep time: two weeks of stressing, shopping, and crafting gifts.
• Cosmetic upgrades: one hour to transform into “someone who looks like she has her life together.”
• Event length: six hours in the car, plus a full day of interaction.
• Recovery time: estimated three to five business days, maybe longer. Please hold.

Today, I’m the human equivalent of a phone stuck on 2% battery with a broken charger. Hollow, sluggish, vaguely resentful at the concept of standing upright. And yet… this is the price of admission when you leave your cave.

So if you’re also lying in bed after “a fun day,” wondering why your body feels like you ran a marathon while juggling flaming swords, let me reassure you: you didn’t imagine it. Social hangovers are real. Spoon debt is brutal. Jeans are a weapon of mass destruction.

Recovery Day Survival Tips (a.k.a. How to Human Again After Too Much Humaning)

• Hydrate like it’s your new religion. You just sweated out three weeks’ worth of electrolytes socializing.
• Eat something that doesn’t come in a crinkly wrapper. (No shame if it does, but bonus points for real nutrients.)
• Lay flat. On the bed, the couch, or the floor — whatever’s closest when you collapse.
• Noise-cancel the world. Earplugs, headphones, or just a dramatic blanket burrito.
• Cancel productivity. Laundry and dishes can wait. Your nervous system cannot.
• Gentle motion only. Stretching, slow walks, or the ceremonial shuffle to the fridge.
• Remember: jeans are optional for the rest of your life.

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Tomorrow I’ll probably be fine(ish). But today? Today is about recovery, snacks, and swearing off denim forever. Til next time gang, take care of yourselves, and each other.