Hand Clothes

“Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand.”

We found ourselves at the heart of the brewboy Festival, an annual pilgrimage for craft beer enthusiasts. The festival sprawled across the scenic City of Popsberg, known for its whimsical charm and legendary microbreweries. Some friends and I—Stavros, Twinkle, Bongo, and Biscuit—had been eagerly anticipating this weekend, our tickets purchased months in advance.

The first day was a blur of laughter, hops, malt and joy. We sampled beer of all creeds, from stouts as dark as midnight to IPAs that danced with citrus and pine. As the hours passed, our enthusiasm only grew. We reveled in the camaraderie, the shared experience of discovering exotic flavors and ultimately fond memories. By the second day, we were deep into the city's alcoholic offerings, our collective sobriety a distant memory.

As the holiday drew to a close, reality began to creep back in. A flight home to our small city was scheduled for the early morning, and we were all feeling effects of the impending hangovers. The ride to the airport was a quiet one, each of us lost in our thoughts and battling the throbbing in our heads.

At the airport, we attempted to mask our condition. The small size of our city meant there were plenty of familiar faces among the passengers—colleagues, acquaintances, even some our clients. The prospect of being seen in our far-less-than-professional state added a layer of anxiety to our already miserable condition.

We boarded the plane, grateful for the relative anonymity the journey offered. That was until a seemingly innocuous safety demonstration began. The flight attendant, a middle-aged woman with a kind face and an obvious case of nerves, fumbled her way through the routine. Her inexperience was apparent, and in our hungover state, it struck us as hilariously incongruent.

As she stumbled over her words in much the same way we had been stumbling the night before, our amusement increased. The tension grew and like a gun shot, a crescendo, she tripped over the phrase “hand clothes.” The absurdity of it all—our hungover state, the nervous attendant, the attempt to appear normal—combined to create a moment of pure, uncontrollable laughter. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to stifle my laughter, my body shaking uncontrollably.

My friends were no better off. Stavros and Bongo were nearly doubled over, Twinkle had buried her face in her hands, and Biscuit was biting her lip so hard I worried she might draw blood. The flight attendant, noticing our struggle, was unable to stifle her own nervous grin. Her laughter, genuine and warm, broke the tension. For a brief moment, our hangovers, our worries, and social pressure, they all melted away.

By the time the plane touched down in our small city, our spirits had lifted considerably.

As we gathered our bags and prepared to face the real world once more, I couldn’t help but feel grateful. Grateful for the friendship, the laughter, and the reminder that even in our lowest moments, there can be joy and connection. The hangover would pass, but the memory of that flight, and the laughter we shared, would stay with me forever.