Saturday night, Greg and I went to a birthday party for a friend of ours. The party, which was being thrown by a grad student, began at 9:30. First off, Greg and I thought it was insane that this party began so late. By 9:30 on a typical night, we are curled up on the couch reading or watching television, and wearing pajamas.
Back when we were young whipper-snappers, oh, about four years ago, we never went to a party before 10 p.m. When you’re in college, that’s when parties start. And things don’t really get going until 11. But things have changed. We are old now. We have “children” that wake us up at 6:30 every morning. We have a mortgage. And a Kitchenaid stand mixer.
I figured we would spend an hour or two at the party and still get home at a reasonable hour. We had a good time at the party, chatting with new people, drinking a beer or two. But we didn’t stay real long. As we left the party, clearing our heads of the loud music and smoky air, Greg asked me what time I thought it was.
“I’d guess 11,” I said.
“I’m going to say 12:45,” Greg said.
“No way,” I said. “We weren’t in there that long. It’s probably a little later than 11.”
We started the car. The clock said 12:43.
“Oh my gosh!” I said. “How can it be so late? Abe is going to wonder what happened to us.”
“We haven’t been out this late since we lived in Springfield,” Greg said.
By the time we got home, ate a snack, and chatted a bit, it was 2 a.m., so we headed to bed. The next morning, we awoke with a series of grumbles and moans.
“So tired,” I said. “Can’t get out of bed.” Greg just jammed his head into his pillow like an ostrich trying to hide in the sand.
We spent the remainder of the day moping around the house as if we had just finished an Everest expedition. I imagine in another year or two, we will have to start using walkers. So for all you young folks out there, you 24- and 25-year-olds, enjoy your youth while you can. Things will start to go downhill rapidly once you hit 26.