Anyone who knows me well also knows damned well I love to
party. Booze, kids, not ingesting piles of cocaine or other more exotic
substances. I'm a beer drinker and have been for half my life. It's fun, it's
cheap, and you really have to go overboard and party hard for decades
for it to really be deadly in and of itself.
All sorts of partying types have all sorts of different
reasons for their liking of the booze and the times. For some, it means
testosterone-laden sports and male bonding. For others, it means relaxing after
a hard day's work. For still others, I guess, it's an escape from the harshness
of reality.
For me, it was always the unknown that kept me popping tops.
On a good beer-filled party night, it was anyone's guess as to what craziness
might happen, and I do mean that in its most literal sense. Some of the shit we
did was fucking crazy and there's no other way to describe it. I have seen
stuff that would make most average Americans go wide-eyed and turn color. I
have done things that should have netted healthy incarceration sentences. I
have consumed enough booze on some nights to kill a large animal, easy.
Once the beer started flowing, there was literally no
predicting what the night ahead held for us. Might be a fun pool-playing
evening in which we met a bunch of new friends (and hopefully a cute girl or
two!), it might be a fistfight, it might be some completely nutty adventure
into the sticks just because we could. It meant driving too fast in the desert,
it meant good ass times with fun people, it meant endless wonders — and it
separated us for the boring "normies" who opted for an early bedtime
so they wouldn't suffer the next day. We never cared much about suffering the
next day.
But now, in my mid-forties, that same unpredictability is
downright fucking scary. It could very well mean all the things listed above,
but instead of people writing off wacko actions as kids having a good time, it
means jail sentences. It means possibly losing your house or job. It means
disrupting the family situation, and usually not in a good way. It means
hellish hangovers that take days instead of hours to get over. It means
sacrificing something so you can have something else.
It just isn't the same.
Today when I wake up bruised and cut and confused, I'm far
less proud than I would have been twenty years ago. What used to be badges of
honor now turn into walks of shame. What used to be adventures can now
represent horrific encounters with the police and, let's face it, two forty-somethings
fighting in the parking lot of a bar is just sad. Being last man standing only
means being first man hurting in the coming days. What used to be screaming
into a mic at karaoke and receiving cheers anyhow is now just the morose
picture of a man who never really learned how to do anything worthwhile, so
he's still screaming into a mic at karaoke. The men who were my age then used
to tell me they hoped I got on track because I'm too smart and have too much
potential to squander my life away with a Bud in my hand. Now most people
probably just figure I squandered my life away with a Bud in my hand.
And that may well be true. I have more college credits than
you can shake a stick at, but no degree; I'm a fiction writer who still pens
but has yet to "make it" in the word world. I'm a talented editor who
has trouble finding work because I'm up against candidates with degrees. I'm
overqualified for most entry-level jobs but I can't get into an upper-level job
because, well, I chose to do different things in my youth than plan for actual
adulthood.
My point? I don't know. I do know that had I stayed home and
hit the books instead of getting hammered and chasing women I'd likely take
home a decent paycheck today. Do I
care? I'm not sure. I've never had a decent paycheck so I don't yet know what
I'm missing. And maybe that's a good thing.
The sheer amount of extreme party nights has dwindled, of
course, but they still rear their heads now and again, reminding me that I'm
not twenty-five anymore every single time. I'm finding that now, I appreciate
unpredictable nights less and less. I'm finding I like knowing where I'm going
to sleep. I like keeping to a reasonable schedule so I'm not a fucking wasteoid
for days after a bender. I enjoy waking up in my comfy pajamas instead of in my
clothes, Leatherman digging into my back and everything in my pockets squished
and ruined, boots or shoes still on aching feet, glasses missing at best, but
probably busted somewhere in a pile of dirt behind a random bush. But mostly, I
like not having to "fix shit" I fucked up while on some beerfest
crusade. People I've hurt, things I've broken, shit I've said that I have to
apologize for profusely and hope people chalk it up to the booze talking.
Fuck all that.
Will I party still? Oh, you bet. It's too big a part of me
to just leave alone. Moderation is key, and that's something I've never
learned. I'm getting there. I'm seeing the light. Plus, I'm now fat and out of
shape, something I never thought I'd be. That part is fixable, of course, but
the point is it never had to occur in the first place.
Beer. It's the most fun and the most terrible. It's time I
slowed down — way down. But hell, on this last Saturday night I consumed an
embarrassing amount of beers, more than a few shots, and even some moonshine. I
went undefeated in arm wrestling and exchanged stories and jokes with really
good friends. And that, ladies and germs, is non-refundable and
non-replaceable.
But now it's Monday and I'm still hurting. It's time for some life-party
balance.
