I woke up just after ten, aching, paralyzed to the bed. My hangover rocked me, and in no way did I originally plan to reach that point of debauchery last night. But similar to the previous Friday, I did, and the next morning I suffered. My stomach was filled with toxins and my head was filled with misery. I needed a few hours to recoup before any plans would materialize.
After a couple hours of lounging, a bagel, ibuprofen, and an ocean-load of water, plans to leave the house appeared imaginable. Porter insisted on rambling over to Dolores Park–the prime mid-twenties weekend-hangout spot– to meet up with people. The weather was delicious and my well-being was lifting, with that, I brewed a small round of coffee and moments later, I stepped outside into the light of day.
The walk to Dolores Park lasts about thirty minutes: trekking up hills, bracing down the vertical slopes, and rolling under the sun. Once we reached the park, we converged with old friends and newly-made friends under the California Palm trees. The park was scattered with groups lie out on tapestries, characters selling joints and truffles, and ice-cream men pushing coolers. The scene was lively but at the same time, peaceful.
My friend, Josh tempted me with beer, but all it delivered was an unsettling feeling in my stomach. I buried the nausea with handfuls of lentil chips and scoops of hummus. Then, I slipped off my shoes and strayed off to play corn-hole.
As the afternoon carried on, Dolores Park filled up and the good times rolled. It was a good day, and most of the time, a good day far exceeds any other wants in life. It eclipses one’s goals, lofty hopes, wild nights, and in addition, compensates for rough mornings.