There was a stretch in my early twenties when going out was a weekly ritual. Friday and Saturday nights at the clubs, occasionally Thursday when the right place had the right energy. It was a consistent part of life back then and Webster Hall was a regular stop.

In those days I was not the most confident dancer sober. It took a while before I got comfortable enough to just enjoy myself without needing something to take the edge off. That comfort came eventually but it took longer than it should have, and there were plenty of rough mornings along the way before I figured things out.

What I did figure out early was a hangover recovery routine that actually worked, at least for the moderate nights. After leaving the club I would stop at the deli on 3rd Avenue and pick up a turkey and swiss on whole wheat and at least two Gatorades. I would eat and drink on the way home, take two nighttime Advil with a lot of water, and sleep it off. If I had not completely overdone it, I would wake up with a headache but mostly functional and on the road to recovery by afternoon.

The nights where that approach fell short were a different story entirely. Those required a longer, less pleasant process of waiting things out and staying hydrated until my body had worked through it. By morning I would feel rough but clear, and I would swear it would never happen again. It always happened again. That is just how those years went.

Eventually I realized I did not need any of it to have a good time. I stopped drinking entirely and found that the experience of going out was actually better without it. Still a little shy on the dance floor, but the mornings got a lot easier.