I remember when I was doing the whole bar scene thing. I was 22 or so. There were people in the bar, some older, and a friend said, “there’s nothing sadder than a person at 40 acting like they’re 20 because at 20 they acted like they were 40.” It’s a little strange now, looking the other side of that equation in the face, and looking back on that conversation, having just come from a bar.
Now, the bar wasn’t filled with 20-year-olds, but I keep thinking, “I’m getting a little old for this shit.” In this case, we were celebrating—if that’s the right word—some colleagues leaving the company. I was senior there, so the whole thing went on my corporate card. I had two Sam Adams, and here I am, back at work. Although I’m leaving soon.
And it reminds me of my friends from college. I’m not really friends with them anymore. Because most of them are still doing the same drunken-weekends thing they were doing literally 20 years ago. That’s frankly just a little sad. And I just don’t want to be part of that anymore. I have a wife and four kids. That part of my life is over—and good riddance. I did the whole drunken weekend thing, more times than I care to admit. One summer, my friends almost staged an intervention: I was going out three nights a week, getting drunk, picking up random women and bringing them home. After a while, people got worried. But now, I have absolutely no feeling of “I wish…” Except I never saw a Grateful Dead concert, and I really wish I had.
Sorry for the rambling, but remember, I’ve just come from communing with Sam, and I’m tired. Because remember, I have four kids. Three of whom can’t seem to sleep unless they’re cuddled up to me. I’m not complaining, mind you, but the consequence of that, no matter how much I love the cause, is still no sleep for me.