The Hangover, except with a duck

After 22 solid days of drinking I finally managed to give myself a cracker hangover on the last day of my holiday. Well done Alana. I felt quite grim, even a mixed barbecue lunch, giant Diet Coke and cut-price shoes for every member of the family at a discount warehouse didn’t dull the nausea. (Sprog 1 slashing her foot on a broken tile at the warehouse and gouting blood gave my stomach an extra churn. If there’s a unique way to injure herself, Sprog 1 will invariably find it.) Still, I’m a teeny bit surprised by my greenish pallor, as I only had 5 or 6 glasses of wine. Admittedly, not a small amount, but I’ve consumed more during other festive moments on the trip. I think my body is finally screaming “enough” to my brain. Enough alcohol, enough fried food, enough carbs, enough slouching on the couch. Could it mean I’ll finally manage to resist food and alcohol when I get home? After all, I do have a pair of size-too-small $12 jeans to squeeze into. Speaking of rock bottom, we ran the gauntlet of requisite crazies at the bus stop on route to the discount warehouse/barbecue restaurant. Master of madness was a guy screaming obscenities and wielding a live duck wearing a lei, which he inveigled passers-by to perch on their shoulders for a photo and a fee. Sprog 1 was desperate to take him up on the offer. Sprog 2 just kept asking: “what does f@#k mean?” We ignored both requests. Our last night in Waikiki started the same way as the first: sunset cocktails (and coconut shrimp) on the lawn of the gorgeous Halekelani hotel while a trio of musicians played Blue Hawaii. Then we strolled along the beach to the strains of a cover band singing YMCA, Sprog 1 took a fully clothed dip in the surf and fireworks exploded in the sky above our hotel. Nice. Very nice.

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