Over the weekend friends of ours came to visit from out of town. I’d been looking forward to their visit for weeks. This was one of my best friends in the world, a friend I’ve known since we were 9 years old, and her brand new husband. I couldn’t wait for a weekend filled with talking and laughing and reminiscing and drinking and painting the town red.
Although the weekend didn’t disappoint, it was definitely a reminder that we aren’t the 9-year-old girls we used to be. Nope, we’re the 35-year-old grannies who had to take naps after a shopping excursion and send the baby-sitter home after we finished “painting the town red” at a pathetic 9:00 PM.
Yeah that’s right. My big night out ended at 9:00. I’d like to defend myself by saying that 9:00 isn’t so bad considering that the baby-sitter arrived at 5. But that ages me even more. We may have been eating at a cool restaurant, but we were dining with the early birds.
I didn’t used to be this old. I used to be able to stay up all night long, whether I was cramming for finals or closing down a fraternity party. Now I consider it a late night if I stay up past my 10 PM bedtime. And if I do stay up late or have one too many glasses of wine, I pay the price the next day as my mother’s words reverberate in my aching head: You play, you pay.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete hermit. I enjoy going out to nice restaurants and bar hopping with friends. But after a couple of hours I’m more than ready to get back home, crawl into my jammies, and watch a good movie from the comfort of my own sofa, which is exactly what we did last weekend.
I don’t know when I transitioned from party animal to party pooper. I don’t know when I started ending my nights at the same time they used to kick off. I don’t know when loud music in a club became irritating rather than invigorating. I don’t know when I started looking at girls in their 20’s and thinking, wow, I wish I had their energy. I don’t know when I started giving myself a bedtime.
I don’t know when I became OLD.