Dear Night Owls

9 Mar

Dear Night Owls,

My dad once told me that nothing good happens after 1 am. I can’t remember the exact context of this conversation– no doubt I was lobbying for a later curfew– but I do remember how adamant he was. Nothing, he said, absolutely nothing good happens after 1 am. There is never any reason to be out then. Go home.

At any rate, it’s never really been a danger with me: I’m what you might call a sleeper. That’s right. Not a night owl, not a morning person. I am all about the cozy comforter and soft downy pillows and overly realistic dreams about people I knew long ago.

But what I’ve learned is this. Nothing interesting happens before 1 am. I mean, yes, after 1 am there are fights and people get arrested and people are more likely to driving more drunk than they should be and those are not good things.

But take this example: Two years running now, I have gone to a friend’s birthday party and missed the action. Last year I left around 12:30. The party was winding down, the drinks had been drunk (the people were drunk), there was hardly anyone left, and whoever was left was all sleepily smoking cigarettes in the sideyard. AND APPARENTLY THERE WAS A DANCE PARTY AFTER I LEFT. WHAT THE HELL. I LOVE A DANCE PARTY.

Ahem. This year, I stayed until 1:15. Note: that is after 1:00. Just to be sure. I yawned and rocked back and forth on my heels and generally almost fell over from tipsy tiredness. I watched those suckers smoke their cigarettes, I stuck around long enough to have a friend yell at me, unprompted, that BOYS WILL BREAK YOUR HEART THEY JUST DON’T KNOW HOW TO LOVE DON’T DO IT.

Let’s be honest, the party’s usually over after that conversation.

But still I stayed!

I stayed and watched a friend lie down, or maybe fall down, on the sidewalk, and refuse to get up until someone else reached down and brushed his teeth with a finger for a solid two minutes. Yep.

Three more people left. The vodka in my friend’s purse was gone. Someone was eating the raspberries off the top of the cake.

The birthday girl took out the recycling. The party was over. Dead. Finito. I walked home with three of the few remaining people, just to ensure that the critical mass was shifted my way.


In Rome, there was rather an extreme case of this. My roommate and I would be out eating dinner until ten or eleven, walking and eating gelato until midnight, and then, everyone tired and headed for bed, we would call it quits. The next day we would find out that the undergraduates had all met up at, like, what must have been 2 or 3 in the morning, gone to a gay club or a bar made entirely of ice, and been drinking, I don’t know what, maybe absinthe? Unicorn blood? And making out with Italian men.

That still seems made up to me. I refuse to believe it exists. Who LEAVES THEIR HOUSE AT 2 AM TO START THEIR NIGHT?

I’m such a terrible party-er. People need to learn to get drunk quicker so they can get their scandal in by midnight so I can see it and still get home to bed. Don’t they know it’s about me?




One Response to “Dear Night Owls”

  1. Brendan Cavalier 9 March 2011 at 9:51 am #

    Another video for you that your blog reminded me of:

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