I'm getting too old for this nonsense.
It's Fin's birthday in a couple of weeks. 28. Nearly 30. Ten years older than he was when we met.
We're growing up, settling down, getting older, and I don't really mind that. There's something reassuring in our quiet, calm existence, our growing bank of shared experience and whispered plans.
But we're not too old to let our hair down once in a while. Oh, no.
We celebrated his birthday early, on Saturday night, with a select group of awesome people.
My friend awoke face down on our couch still wearing her jacket. There were curly fries scattered all over the kitchen floor. I can only move my left arm through 90 degrees, having toppled over on my high, high heels (in fairness, I could easily do that sober). My late-night twitter stream is full of spectacularly embarrassing drunken tweets. Fin's sensible, responsible, mid-30s friend threw up all over his mother's living room carpet. It was juvenile, ridiculous, shame-inducing carnage.
And it was bloody brilliant.
(I couldn't do it every weekend, mind you. I might not be too old to go out and make a spectacle of myself, but I'm definitely too old to function properly the next day. Getting off the couch was my sole achievement yesterday. And that was only to move to a different couch.)