I’d like to make this desperate plea to all of us guys in our late 20s and into our 30s: can we please all stay friends?
I know this seems like a silly thing to ask, but now that I am gliding past my mid-30s, I fully understand the lure of inertia; it’s just so easy to choose to NOT do something. In your mind, everything becomes a hassle, and when “fun times with your friends” starts getting lumped in there, I think you have to start asking yourself what you’re put on this earth to do.
Much of it has to do with relationships: if the lure of possible sex with somebody new is taken out of the picture, then your loins approach every event with a subconscious “why bother?” You must fend off your blasé loins! Just because you’ve ended your search for a partner doesn’t mean you can’t still go to that ice hotel in Reykjavik!
Remember when we were in college, and the years after, when we used to take nonsensical trips to bizarre places after getting the day off work? Do you remember how we fantasized about creating a utopia of like-minded friends, buying land somewhere and having bi-annual get-togethers, continuing to have shared experiences so that we don’t get fat, bloated and spend what little time we had left wistfully talking about the “good old days”?
I’m here to say FUCK the good old days. Yes, they were awesome. They were also treacherous, poverty-stricken and suicidal. We should make sure our lives remain interesting enough NOW so that we don’t get puckered and slushy from stewing in the juices of our past.
Yes, I know some of us have kids. Too fucking bad. Yes, I realize your job takes up most of your time. You’re boring me. Yes, I realize I have the kind of job that allows me to drive across the country every four months. Eat me. I’m not saying we should all be attending 3-keg blowouts on weeknights. I’m saying that we should all agree to have some sort of blast TWICE A YEAR at the very least.
These twice-a-year get-togethers should be well-planned, silly, exotic, full of liquor (or AA meetings), sports-related, architecture-related, I don’t goddamn care. Just SOMETHING. ANYTHING to shove us out of the rut that we find comfortable, even if it is slowly killing us.
Before Salem came up to our Labor Day Jartacular, he said to me, “you know, I’m like you: we’d both drive 20 hours for five hours of fun.” I had to remind him I’ve driven further for much less fun. Even during my 50-hour-a-week dot-com days.
I’m not holding myself up as some paragon of spontaneity; I’ve flaked on my fair share of great times because of some pretty lame reasons. But at least I fucking try. I hold a fantastic summer party upstate every year, and still, as we all age, sometimes it’s like pulling teeth trying to get people excited. About ANYTHING.
You miss a weekend. Then you miss a party. Then you miss a barbeque. Next thing you know, you’re watching “Matlock” at a nursing home and wondered what the fuck happened to all your friends.
Take back the night, you twenty-and-thirtysomethingers! Go to parties! When someone invites you up for a weekend in a bizarre place, do it even though it might suck! TAKE UP ALL OFFERS!