A Hangover Kit for Men Who Can’t Afford the Hangover

There’s a certain ceremony to drinking in your early thirties. The reckless rush of early adulthood has slowed. There are fewer bar fights. More mezcal tastings. You care about the glassware now. You measure. You mix. You have opinions about vermouth. You toast to things that matter: deals closed, friends returned, a Wednesday survived.

But once the last drink is done, and the coat is folded over your forearm like some weary truce flag, the real work begins. No longer is it possible to swagger into the following day untouched. The body keeps the score. And in your thirties, it doesn’t keep it. Rather, it publishes it.

What has emerged, then, is a group of health conscious men, who once took pride in not knowing what kombucha was, and now find themselves comparing magnesium content in hydration sachets and a small, curated toolkit. Not for the night itself, but for the morning after.

The hangover kit, in 2025, has quietly gone premium.

It begins, oddly enough, with milk thistle. Once an herb reserved for health stores and naturopaths, it now comes in minimalist packaging—black capsules in glass jars with fonts that whisper "Brooklyn-designed." The active compound, silymarin, has been said to support liver function, though the science is more supportive than definitive.

But the ritual holds. One capsule before the first drink. It’s not a miracle. It’s a gesture. A kind of gentleman’s handshake with your liver. I know I’m asking a lot. Here's something in return.

Then there’s the tablespoon of olive oil. A Mediterranean trick passed down by grandmothers and now rebranded on TikTok as "the pre-game secret of models and moguls." You take it before your first drink. Cold-pressed. Extra virgin. Not because it tastes good—it doesn’t—but because fat slows down the absorption of alcohol.

Kendall Jenner does it. So does that retired chef who only wears linen and lives in Goa. It has, as all wellness habits eventually do, drifted into mainstream drinking pre-game rituals.

In India, this pre-drink practice has quietly blended with traditional wisdom. Some substitute ghee, or chase the oil with jeera water. (Even a spoonful of curd). The point is less about the ingredient and more about the intention: to respect your body before you ask it to metabolise three hours of whisky sours and a round of ill-advised tequila.

Then comes the most understated MVP of the kit: ORS sachets. Once reserved for fevers and summer diarrhoea, they now hold their own next to top-shelf tequila. Rehydration is no longer an afterthought; it’s a strategy. You tear the sachet, stir it into a glass of water, and sip like you’re prepping for a marathon. Because, in a way, you are.

The body loses water as it breaks down alcohol. And with that water go electrolytes—sodium, potassium, chloride. The simple genius of ORS is that it puts them back. No frills, no branding. Just plain science. Somewhere between your second and third drink, if you sneak one in, you’ll be far less likely to wake up with that skull-drum throb that makes you question all your life choices. Not that it saves you from texts sent to exes. But it might help you read them with less nausea.

And then there are the hangover gummies—the most recent addition, the most suspiciously cheerful. They come in bright packaging, like something you’d win at an airport vending machine or hide from children. Packed with B vitamins, DHM, and sometimes turmeric or ginger, they position themselves as the last line of defence.

They are not medicine but are optimism, disguised as confectionery. You pop two before sleeping and hope that branding budgets know something biochemistry doesn’t.

But like the workings of a magic potions, the kit doesn’t work unless you believe in it. Not blindly, but deliberately. Like double-knotting your shoes before a long run. Or choosing still water over sparkling at dinner. The intention becomes part of the effect.

Drinking in your thirties doesn't really call for forgetting the night anymore. If anything, it is to remember—conversations, laughter, the rare evenings when everyone made it out after months of back and forth, matching to each other's schedules so you can finally get together.

Unlike your twenties, when a few deadlines could have been extended, some plans could be dropped because your head is a live rock concert post a night of heavy-drinking, thirties call for you taking a little more responsibility. You want to wake up, recall the night, and still make it to yoga, or work, or a dim sum brunch that requires smart-casual clothing and actual attention.

The hangover kit, then, is not just about avoiding pain. It’s about preserving the life you’ve worked to build. A life that has calendars. Commitments. Morning meetings. Kids, sometimes. A life where indulgence is allowed, but recovery is non-negotiable.

Somewhere, you imagine, even Leonardo DiCaprio (now reportedly abstaining, now photographed with wine) is quietly eyeing a sachet of ORS and wondering if gummies really do what it says.

So, while you can still drink like you used to. You just can’t recover the same way. But with the right kit, maybe you don’t need to.