Remember in The Fast and the Furious when Vin Diesel is romanticizing illegal drag racing and he says that he lives his life a quarter mile at a time? I’ve come to realize that as of late I’m basically Vin Diesel except I’m not bald, jacked, or racing souped up vehicles with NoS for money. I’m not living my life a quarter mile at a time, but I’m most definitely living it one weekend at a time.
I woke up on Saturday morning with a hangover that would have killed lesser men. I had a throbbing headache and, upon looking at my text messages from the evening before, a really strong desire to find somewhere to have a post-bar after party. This never materialized for reasons I won’t tell you about here, but suffice it to say I got a little too drunk and the post-4:00 a.m. party that I was trying so desperately to put together just didn’t happen.
Now I know that you don’t want to hear about me having a hangover. It’s equivalent to someone telling you about their horror story on a cross-country flight (that literally everyone has experienced if they’ve flown before) or some stranger at a party giving you the low-down on how they manage to shave five whole minutes off of their commute to work in the morning. Nobody cares.
But I got up that Saturday morning, ate four Advil with a cup of coffee and got dressed. Plans for the day? Hitting up a spot in Lincoln Park where, for just forty dollars, one is able to drink bottomless mimosas, beer, and bloody marys. It’s a spot that gets you drunk, and my only plan for that day was to drink my hangover away because I guess I just wanted to pretend that I was 23 years old for a day.
Since it was close to 90 degrees outside and I felt like listening to some music, I made the mile and a half trek to this bar from my apartment on foot. It was on this walk that my mind really started to wander. I was still slightly nauseous from the night before, but the contents of my thoughts made me sicker to my stomach than any drink that I had drunk the night prior.
“Why am I still living for the weekends?”
“How come I can’t seem to have fun on a Friday or Saturday night without alcohol?”
“Is my existence on this planet really sad or is everyone else my age doing the exact same thing today?”
I mean let’s just be honest here. If I hadn’t been out drinking all day Saturday what would I have been doing? I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I would have left my apartment to grab a bite and then I would have crawled back in bed and watched Netflix all goddamn day.
So which one is less depressing? You tell me because I don’t know the answer. That post-bar party I was talking about earlier? I had four or five other people in my group that night who were trying to do the exact same thing, we just couldn’t find a place suitable enough to fit all of the people who wanted to come along.
What happens when the beer runs out and the sun is about come up? What happens then? It’s back to your pathetic apartment alone where you’ll spend the next several hours cursing yourself for the decisions you made three hours beforehand. I didn’t want to go home last Friday or Saturday night because I knew what was waiting for me. Nothing. An empty bed and the realization that Monday was upon all of us.
We tell ourselves every weekend that next weekend is going to be different but it never is. Partying is a fucking wasteland but we do it every Friday and Saturday (and maybe even Thursday) because it’s a momentary escape from the drudge that is everyday life. The inevitable march towards your thirties and weekends where the highlight becomes a Sunday morning trip to the farmer’s market for a ten dollar box of raspberries that you don’t really need. .