Getting old is hell…is what you’re supposed to say around age forty-five. Apparently I’m the oldest twenty-something I know. By the time eleven o’clock rolls around I’m getting ready for bed. In fact, last night I went to bed at ten and got up at six and it felt nothing short of amazing.
The problem with all of this is that life seems to happen between 10 p.m. and 1 a.m. Sadly, I’m usually asleep by then. Late Night has asked me to hangout every night this week, forcing me to decline. Though we live on the same avenue, we’re roughly sixty blocks apart and I’m not up for dropping cash on cabs and the train takes too long in the evening. So we’re at a stand still.
This is also how he got the name, Late Night. I never hear from him until after ten. The fact that I reply to his text messages gets me some credit, but then I feel almost bad because it seems like I’m playing hard to get. There’s no playing going on, it’s just not possible to win when the choice is you or my bed – the bed always wins. He could come over here, except he has a dog. That means he’d need to leave in the middle of the night, which may not be terrible but I can understand why it’s not appealing.
This week’s attempts will come to an end as I have to head off to Philly for a 5K. Better luck next week, Late Night.