OUT OF THE WINDOW

AH, THE MORNING after.
It's all whiskey under the bridge now, the past night's revelry of eardrum and bass, highly advanced stages of nicotine addiction, and free flowing beer to wash it all down. Yet instead of being tucked away within pillow clouds to resuscitate a brain that feels like it was swallowed by a paper shredder, you're sitting up, wide-eyed awake, clutching your cup of coffee as if your very life depended on it. A computer screen stares blankly at you. For it's only the middle of the work week, and you want to affirm your immortality by proving that you can work hard and party harder, as all the cooler-than-thou city owls so proclaim. Yep, the weekday is the new weekend! you shout loudly in your head (but not too loud so as not to lose more cerebrospinal fluids). Then as the last bubbles of the Berroca fizzle into your bottled water, you realize that your rakenrol lifestyle has a price, other than a liver screaming for a substitute. You open your wallet and there you have it. Or rather, there you don't.
Cue in soundtrack by Cake: Ah tell me, how do you afford your rock 'n roll lifestyle?
The formula is quite simple, at least according to my friend, a band manager, who continues to amaze me as to how she can show up everyday for her day job and still maintain a perfect after-hours attendance at a favorite indie hotspot. It's all a matter of grade school addition and subtraction, she revealed the other day, opening an Excel sheet to show me her weekly budget. Subtract from the food budget, because apparently it is possible to survive on instant noodles and 3-in-1 coffee for lunch. Then add the amount to the party staples of yosi and alcohol. Since she got together with a new boyfriend over the holidays, that meant she could minus a bit from her gas allowance. But the fact that she got a new boyfriend also meant that she had to add to her cell phone allocation. Whatever amount that was left over went to her iPod Nano fund. It was so simple and elegant I almost shed a tear. Except for one glaring fact that made all the difference: A black hole left in her bank account, at least until the next paycheck.
My free-spirited friend would then shrug and say that hell, we're young and single and thus don't need to be saving up yet for some kid's future college education, so it makes perfect sense to invest your hard-earned wages on an enviable nightlife. Putting a premium on fun-now that is what being young is all about. Rock on.
… Ah, tell me. Your liver pays dearly now for youthful magic moments …
That trump card - Youth -- usually works for me in drowning out that inner voice of logic or a guilty conscience that creeps up once in a while. It works because I'm usually surrounded by party-harder, good vibes groupies who knew how to balance their work and play equations. We loved life, we loved the nightlife sometimes a little bit more, and as long as we weren't in debt and had track marks on our arms, we had a good thing going for us.
Recently, however, I was assailed with an abnormal dose of reality, from a childhood friend who did not get this "rebellious" approach to life.
… Aging black leather and hospital bills …
I met up with her recently at a celebration that called for a reunion of old friends. As reunions go, we exchanged updates on each other's lives. When the night wore on and it was about the right hour to head out and chase the sun, she declined my invitation as she complained about her various aches and pains and her sleepiness. Nothing a little good music and a rum coke can't fix, I joked. My friend then turned to me and said, "I'm getting too old for this, this lola is going to bed." Fair enough, but what really stumped me was an unexpected e-mail I got from her a few days later.
In the e-mail, she relayed her billions of concerns. About my health, the condition of my heart, my brain, my liver, and not to mention such "senseless" spending demanded by my lifestyle. It was about time, she said, to start worrying about my future. The words of Garcia Marquez suddenly echoed in my head: truly, age is not how old you are, but how old you feel. At that moment, she made me feel old.
That was when I realized what the real price to pay was for indulging in endless nocturnal revelries. What added up in the end was not just a hefty bill, but the years. And so someday, in the distant, faraway future, I would not have the luxury of time to give excuses that excess isn't rebellion. Someday, I'd have to deal with such "matters of consequence" that The Little Prince had no clue about. As such, my real fear was not in getting old, but feeling too old to have fun.
Such is the price to pay if you choose to live in the now, from "moment to magic moment" as the song goes. You tend to believe that tomorrow never comes.