I’m getting old.
That’s all there is to it.

You think you can keep it up forever, partying, gallivanting, spending more time out on the town than doing the right thing, sleeping.
No rest for the wicked, my friend Matt says. You can sleep when you’re dead.

Hell, then, I’m one foot in the grave.

Take last night. We went to dinner at this AMAZING restaurant down on the harbour (proper Kiwi spelling and such) called Finz. It was super-swank, and quite fitting, you see. Had a drink at the bar (out of limes so had to ignominize my signature cocktail and have a vodka soda with TWO LEMONS, the travesty!) There was a stream running through the floor, an aquarium with live goldfish in it even, covered with a glass/plastic top so you could walk on it. Très chi chi. (I’ll go into the bathrooms later…)

Ordered dinner. Had perhaps 2 drinks plus a glass of wine. The dinner was superb, lots of seafood and a delectable clam sweet corn and spinich cream-based soup. Heaven, I’m in heaven….

Then, despite the stimulating conversation, a strange thing happened. I noticed myself beginning to yawn.

“YAWN!” you say, “Ha!” Yes, me too.Then it happened again. And again.

“Must splash water on my face,” I thought. “It is FAR TOO EARLY to be sleepy.” So traversed to the bathrooms, which were unequalable in scope and quality. There were REAL FLUFFY WHITE hand towels, perfectly folded next to the blue bowl-esque sink. Looked like something you’d find at a 5-star hotel in, say, Japan? I considered taking a snapshot but was a bit worried if someone else had come in there. But I digress…

Went back to the table, attempted to again engage in the delightful conversation, and then IT HAPPENED AGAIN! I YAWNED.

I was praying for little miracles, like the waiter deciding that we MUST LEAVE instead of SLLLOOOOWWWWLLYYYY presenting us ALL with a dessert menu. Or perhaps that this bevy of 6 businessmen would, in fact, bypass coffee. (No such luck.) Tried to steady my falling head on my hands, prying my eyes open, taking deep breaths…anything!

I admit it. I failed.
My head hit the table, my eyes rolled back; I did the unthinkable. I fell asleep at dinner.

And it wasn’t even 11pm.

So, disown me if you must, chastise me if you will, I’m a weakling. And a tired one at that.

Perhaps I’m just saving it for this Friday’s all-out-regalia of birthday events. Or for next weekend’s prolonged birthday celebration. Or perhaps I’m in denial?

One thing is true, however; Matt, seeker of all truth, seer of the people, (who doesn’t eat seafood because he pees in the ocean,) had it right.

NO REST FOR THE WICKED.
Let the fun begin…