Staying Out Late Hurts When You’re 30
I like to party as much as the next girl. Okay, that’s a lie. On a spectrum from hitting the town every weekend, to I’ve never stayed up past my bedtime, I would rate myself a solid 6.2. I’m the type of person who talks big about, “living it up,” but then 8 p.m. rolls around, and I’m in my PJs re-watching New Girl. And, if I do go out, I’m home at a reasonable hour, so I can go to the gym and do big girl stuff the next day.
That’s not entirely true either, because it’s not like I never party. I’ve had my share of jungle juice, making best friends in line for the restroom, half-forgotten evenings, and yes, hangovers.
Ah, Hangovers.
God’s way of reminding us that we are mortal, no matter what the tequila shots told us. Never listen to tequila.
When I was younger, I quickly shook off a hangover. I made sure to drink a lot of water before leaving the bar, hit the bathroom when I got home, and half the hangover was gone by morning. Finish it off with some Gatorade, bacon, and French fries, and I was back to normal by noon.
The problem is, I’m not 22 anymore… I’m 30, and hangovers are a whole lot worse. Suddenly a night out has become an entire weekend commitment, with the next day being entirely dedicated to recovery. Gone are the days of rinse, wash repeat. Now are the days of, I can barely move for 24 hours, an entire empty bag of tater tots and the whole HBO season binged as I languish on the couch.
One would think that this reality would deter me from having the “accidental” 3 a.m. night out. By “accidental” I mean the type of night where I had full intention to be home by midnight. I’ll be out with friends, and it’s late, but do I call an Uber? Do I go home? No. Next thing I’m dancing like I’ve never danced before and it’s past 3 a.m. I spend the entire next day complaining about it and living in my guilt.
For example, my 30th birthday was a low-key meet-up at a chic sake bar in Brooklyn. By about 11 p.m., the place emptied out, and a few friends went home. I did not. I should have, but I decided not to take the advice of my brain and instead follow the delusional dance-hungry goblin inside of me. So, we hopped on a train, went into Manhattan (I live in Brooklyn, so this was a commitment), and went to an 80’s dance club.
An hour later, a few more friends go home. I should have too, but instead, my drunk ass googles, “dance clubs near me,” and then the few remaining of us ended up at a burlesque club. The place was amazing. The dancer was from West Virginia, like me!
It was the perfect 30th birthday. However, the next day was a wash. I spent the day vowing never to stay out that late again, or at least drink water…
I didn’t follow my own advice. A few months later, a casual dinner at a friend’s place turned into a 3 a.m. rooftop adventure and taco trucks. A few weeks ago, my boyfriend’s birthday resulted in another late night, again ending with burlesque dancing. (One of these days, I’ll go to a burlesque show on purpose, but accidental burlesque is really a treat).
Hangovers followed all of these excursions, which was served up with a side of guilt. I felt guilty that I stayed out late…even though I wanted to and had a good time. Sure, I hadn’t drunk enough water, but is the extra layer of self-deprecating guilt really needed?
Maybe I need to just accept that I actually like dancing until the wee hours of the morning sometimes, and it’s alright. If I actually plan on being out late, instead of my dance goblin tricking me into it. I can have a guilt-free recovery day spent catching up on all my binging. The moral of my story is you are never too old to stay up past your bedtime, particularly if there is burlesque involved. But at 30 years old, the price has gone up, just like gas.
