I can no longer stay up past 2:00 AM two nights in a row.
I tried this weekend: dancing at Common Ground on Friday with Sylvia, Joanna’s roommate, Rachel and Caitlin’s friend Andrea. I also went out on Saturday when Megan and Amy put out a call for Phoenix Landing. The result: twinges in my lower back as I hunched over the sink the next morning. No spasms (yet). Just the quiet reminder that my body needed time to repair.
I can no longer eat whatever I want whenever I want.
Breakfast on Saturday was a Dunkin Donuts sausage egg and cheese sandwich. Lunch was four slices of pepperoni pizza with some Diet Pepsi. Dinner was a spinach and cheese quesadilla (from Pemberton Farms, home of healthy food, in fairness). Breakfast on Sunday was a post-jiu-jitsu protein shake from the Watertown BSC. Lunch was a grilled cheese with tomato and a side of fries at the Brighton Cafe with Provocateur‘s own Matthew. Dinner was a burger at Lucky’s in Southie, followed by two stiff cocktails at Drink with Rachel V. The result: toxic heartburn.
Add to that a sexy rasping cough from allergies, and I’m a bent old man.
I wouldn’t have it any other way, though. Not strictly true – if I could choose to magically stay healthier and see my friends in one weekend, I would. But that’s not an option. So I suffer a little so that I can jump and scream to “Flagpole Sitta” at 90s Night. So that I can rap “Mo’ Money Mo’ Problems” with a total stranger in Cambridge. So that my friend Aaron can elaborate on the differences between Old Fitzgerald and Maker’s Mark while pouring me a vieux carre in Drink on a quiet evening.
All this talk about living passionately, cramming a life full of promise, carpe diem and that shit? Time to start taking it seriously.