It’s 3 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. Unless you are getting out of bed to pee, it’s never good to be aware of a midweek 3 a.m. as a 37-year-old. Making matters worse are the facts that I am in a pub, I am having a good time, there is a waitress standing in front of me, I have a course to teach in 7 hours and my conversational abilities have devolved to that of being able to utter idiomatic statements about being out too late on a week night.
“Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb!”
The waitress is unimpressed, “So, one more?”
“In for a penny, in for a pound!”
It continues like this for more time than I am willing to admit. Mercifully, someone commandeers the reins and orders. Bad music is playing and the drinks come two minutes later.
“Cheers!” Everyone says.
“Yeah, this is going to hell in a hand basket.”
If you’ve ever seen the Lethal Weapon movies, you remember two things: Mel Gibson’s glorious 80’s locks and Danny Glover saying, “I’m too old for this shit,” every time something ordinary happens like jumping off a building into a swimming pool, a toilet exploding or getting shot at by South African drug dealer diplomats.
Until the last year or so I always laughed at Glover’s joke from the distance of youth. But then my mid-30s came and this “joke” became my occasional morning time mantra.
I usually abide by the rules of the thirty-something cat owning, sweater-vest wearing, online chess playing university teacher. I go home early, floss, keep my fried foods down to a Friday night visit to KFC, and take a daily multivitamin. But once in a while, I foolishly believe that I am 22 years old again and act accordingly.
This almost always coincides with a visit from friends. If these visitors live in Pittsburgh, there is some serious trouble.
6.5 hours later: 9:30 a.m. I am on a tram heading to the university. My eyes are the color of beets and there is a herd of elephants playing rugby on my brain. My fellow passengers are clear on my condition and avoid me as required by the 1992 Council of International Amnesty Laws for the Hungover (CIALH). As I step off the tram I mumble through the onions in my mouth, “I am too old for this shit.”
My college-aged students are far less sympathetic than the tram fellows. Ignoring the CIALH, they have decided that this morning I will clarify every grammatical issue in the history of the English language.
In a moment of desperation brought on by the subjunctive I put down my chalk and face them.
“Have you guys ever seen Lethal Weapon?”
#1 by Bill Hobbs on May 31, 2012 - 2:51 pm
As I look at hitting 50 in January – it get’s even scarier. I still think I am in my mid-20’s (advising high school students?!)… Great post.
#2 by Andy on May 31, 2012 - 8:51 pm
This reminds me of a recent conversation with my better half concerning a birthday party we were supposed to attend.
Me: “It starts at 10 o’clock Saturday”
BH: “Wait, 10…PM?????”
Me: “Yes rockstar, we are expected to make it all the way to 10pm on a Saturday night.”
…and we struggled, but persevered all the way to midnight. My brother finds this story hilarious.
#3 by Damien Galeone on June 1, 2012 - 9:27 am
Bill, I was one of those students!
Andy, I too was shocked at the prospect of something starting at 10 pm.