April 16, 2012

My dearest,

I’m yawning. Then you follow. We are both yawning and our friends are looking at us with distaste.

“You gotta be kidding,” one of them says.

“What?” I ask, though I know very well what’s going to follow.

“It’s only 10:30. We’ve not even started yet.”

“Yes?”

“Life begins after midnight! It’s the weekend!”

“Well, technically life begins after we get to bed by eleven and get at least seven hours of shut-eye. These old bodies aren’t what they used to be.”

“You’re both in your thirties. Only.”

“We’re old men who like our sleep.”

And so on. And back and forth. But in the end, we head home, shower, change into our bedclothes and drop our heads gladly onto our fluffy pillows. Our friends have only started on their pub crawls, their party-till-they-drop evenings (or mornings, as it were); they’re still young. (Okay, some of them are in their forties but what can we say? Some folks have all the luck with their genes.)

We’re old men. But it’s okay. We snuggle up, start snoring and won’t be having any hangovers the next day. (Hooray!)

Yours, ever and always.