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Last Tuesday I experienced the worst New York City has to offer: the hangover. Having double-booked myself at two holiday parties the night before (all you can drink tequila followed by all you can pay for beer... sidenote: it's rather alarming how much beer you think you can afford after you've consumed nearly a pitcher of margaritas), I knew my Tuesday was going to be a little shot.

Now, let's get one thing straight. I have been hungover before. A lot actually, and I spent pretty much all summer up drinking 'til super late then working all day, and then up all night, repeat. So I know how to handle But, see, New York... New York is the kicker.

Yes, The NYC public transportation system is the best in the world, but I'll tell ya what. Morning rush hour on the subway with a hangover? No go. I couldn't even listen to my ipod or drink my coffee or open my eyes for that matter. And of course it happened to be that jam packed morning where its so crowded the only thing to hang onto is the collar of the jacket the person in front of you is wearing.

I managed to make it with no incident, but as soon as I walked into work the trouble increased. My co-worker was blasting his music, I had an email from my boss saying "this is going to be a day" and I couldn't even scroll down my outlook without getting motion sickness and wanting to vomit all over my desk. Then, the phone rang.

I looked at my caller ID. It was our super high profile NY Times writer. He calls often and my co-worker always thinks I'm talking to my best friend.

"ALLI!!!"
I grumbled. "Please don't yell."
"How ya doin?"
I grumbled again. "I'm pretty hungover," I said with my head in my hands, wondering why I have zero sensor when it comes to what may or may not be an unprofessional thing to say/do.
"Hey, no joke. I was out last night too. I'm tellin you Alli, you gotta go for the egg and cheese. The egg and cheese is key. I just finished mine."
"I just ordered one. It's on its way."
"Good girl. What was it?"
"Tequila."
"Ah, yes yes. Well, I'll tell ya... this time of year is nuts."
"I know."
"I saw a guy on the subway this morning all dressed up in his fancy suit lookin' a little weary, drinking a diet coke."
"Totally. I have my diet coke right next to me. I can't even drink coffee."
"ALLI! Listen. You gotta drink real coke. That's what we do here at the New York Times. Real Coke. Fix ya right up."
"I don't like real coke."
"It works."
"OK, but I dont like it."

Finally our banter ended. A half hour the writer calls back.

"How ya doin?" he asks.
"I think we're gonna be ok."
"Good. Just checkin'" and he hung up the phone.

That's a funny thing about this city... just when you think you're one in millions and you want to fall away and die, you realize 10 people - fancy or not - within 25 feet of you are probably feeling the same way.