There are certain milestones in life where it becomes painfully clear that you are no longer as youthful and full of life as you once were, and that your priorities have shifted to a slightly different place. Throughout the years, these instantaneous epiphanies have revealed themselves in some of the most curious forms. For instance, there was the day not long after graduating from college that I caught myself saying to someone that it “was really awesome to finally own my own washer and dryer.” Why this friend did not punch me in the nose I still do not know.
There is also the time that during a candid discussion with some friends, plans for tax returns were revealed. Televisions, vacations destinations and expensive electronics seemed the most popular wish list items ripe for purchasing. You can imagine the looks of horror I received when I disclosed that our returns were being electronically deposited into the Roth IRA to be touched in a very immediate 39 75 years when we finally retire. How is that NOT 100% awesome?! Based on the agape mouths and blank stares, I had clearly missed the call to board the USS Fun Boat and mistakenly wandered onto HMS Lame Ass.
This past weekend was yet another nail in the proverbial coffin. The Wife™ was in a wedding for a friend, so much of our time was consumed by the events surrounding the nuptials. Friday night’s dinner at the Louisville Slugger museum was complimented by a nice amount of Scotch. Scotch that someone else was paying for. This, as anyone knows, is the best kind of Scotch, so this Scotch was warmly welcomed. I did not get drunk, nor did I intend to. But I did have a bit more alcohol than I do on any average week, which sadly hovers around the mark of one beer every 7-10 days, which by College Rules should immediately revoke my Man Card™. So by the end of Friday, it’s safe to say that I had easily used up July’s alcohol allowance.
“…I had clearly missed the call to board the USS Fun Boat and mistakenly wandered onto HMS Lame Ass.”
Saturday after a 2 p.m. ceremony, the bridal party and all of their significant others were shuffled onto a chartered bus where there was a 2:1 ratio of people to coolers. As people drank with reckless abandon, the driver headed towards Churchill Downs, where we proceeded to spend the next several hours drinking more, betting on races, and hanging out in a very posh, catered skybox. Even by this point, I was a sight for sore eyes, only having a mint julep and some Tanqueray (not together. My god that would be horrible.) I had neither the energy or the metabolic stamina to keep up with the other 20-some people my age. I did what anyone would do in this situation, I panicked.
By the time we got to the reception at 7 p.m. a good portion of the bridal party were on the brink of vomiting off the roof ready to dance, and the awaiting open bar was a challenge that everyone seemed to meet with renewed vigor and vim. I tried. I switched back to Scotch, but it was no use. Even the pregnant women at the reception were outlasting me. All I wanted to do was crawl under the table and sleep. I had become just like an 18 year old freshman chick with a Bacardi Lime. I was a disgrace to every other under-30 person in the joint and I knew it.
So this weekend was yet another milestone in my road to Fogeyville. I’ve become that person who mutters, “I don’t know how you do it!” when hearing the drunken exploits of friends. While most people my age go out three and four times per week, drinking relentlessly for hours on end, I probably was at home watching CSI reruns and falling asleep reading economics books before the sun even goes down. I have accepted this defeat, but do so with a sad and heavy heart.
What’s next? Complimenting someone on their John Tesh collection? A spirited debate with friends on the improved quality of adult diapers? Someone shoot me now.
