Thoughts About Leaving The Party Early.
After 10 years of partying hard (always without drugs though), I like to sleep early. Is that a crime?!
I started going out to parties and clubs pretty early on, I was maybe 14 or 15. Back then, it was the regular thing to do amongst my friends and classmates; if your parents didn’t allow you to stay out past a certain time, then you would find ways around it. Luckily, my parents trusted me enough to send me out to town with my other teenage friends every other week as a reward for my academic results as long as I respected their curfew and let them know what–and with whom–I was planning on doing that night. In Italy starting to drink in your early adolescence is common practice; in most families, wine or beer are table staples and as long as you don’t breach a certain limit, it’s ok to have a sip or two as early as 12 or 13.
When I first got to high school in the fall of 2005, the Italian law didn’t have any specific restriction that stopped underaged people from enjoying nightlife. Sixteen may have been the age limit to be allowed into a club, but nobody really cared. Surely, I don’t recall being asked for an ID very often. After passing the guestlist screening, it was easy to walk up to the bar and request a shot of Rum & Pear juice, then vulgarly dubbed Rum & Fruit, and get the party started.Matter of fact, my friends and I would often wound up chugging several rounds of free shots courtesy of older school mates who worked behind the counter to gain extra pocket money–I know this sounds illegal, but for some reason it wasn’t considered such at the time.
Due to my short lived–yet intense–basketball career, I didn’t enjoy as much freedom as my friends on weekend nights because games mostly happened on Sunday mornings and, in order to be alert the next morning, I was set for an early bedtime. Still, my strict schedule didn’t hinder me from taking full advantage of my parents' leniency. Many were the nights when me and my best friends would meet up at each other’s house in groups, get ready and then scramble to get a ride to and from our favorite discotheque. My parents had one rule: we will drop you off, but we will not pick you up after a certain time; therefore, if I wanted to maximize my time out, I had to make sure one of my friends could take me home or allow me to sleep over.
As my teenage years started fading away and I steadily approached my largely awaited 18th birthday, it became even easier for me to go out. Saturdays weren’t the only days I was allowed to meet my girls, Thursdays and Fridays added to the calendar of my outings. A new set of rules applied. The deal was that if I planned to go out on a school night, I had to be ok with coming home before midnight, and the next morning it would have been my responsibility to wake up. If I didn’t hear my alarm go off at 6AM, then the agreement would be breached and I wouldn’t be allowed to stay out late again for a while. Needless to say, this was a great way of teaching me how to be responsible and accountable for my actions.
Throughout high school, the time I spent getting turnt up with my friends on the weekend gradually increased from a 12AM curfew to no time restraint. By the time I was 18, my crew and I often stumbled back into the house at the break of dawn, trying not to wake anybody up with our severe case of the giggles. Multiple alcoholic drinks were consumed (there is a reason why the smell of vodka nauseates me now) and, more times than not, somebody ended up throwing it all up. Come to think about it, nobody in my friend group could drive yet we always found a safe way home..ahhh, the privilege of growing up in the Italian province.
Before I turned 20, I was already a party veteran. The situation obviously didn’t improve once I left my homely nest and relocated thousands of miles away in California and started college. As I became integrated in some of the most prominent local cliques–and as the only person living on their own on the whole scene–my apartment became the go-to spot for everybody’s shenanigans. Surprisingly, despite the loud Waka Flocka Flame blasting from cheap strung out speakers and the Four Lokos in our system, police never showed up to shoot us down–I guess I was good at managing the crowd. On Sunday mornings, I would repeatedly find myself spending time cleaning up after spilled drinks, picking up ubiquitous red cups and throwing away greasy pizza leftovers–my girlfriends scattered between my bed and my velvety Ikea couch. Ask anybody who lived in Los Angeles and hung out on Fairfax between 2010 and 2021, the parties at 5555, West 6th Street apartment 102 were legendary.
Ironically, my adult friends could never phantom the existence of a Naomi that liked staying out late and drinking like a longshoreman as my present social life features a strict set of rules such as a 10PM cut-off time. It is rare for me to indulge and cross the self-imposed time limit but when I do, I make it a point to never come home later than 1AM. You don’t get to 31 without a wrinkle in sight if you don’t sleep 8 hours a night and narrow your alcoholic intake down.
Anyways, after a summer of early slumbers supported by my low-impact lifestyle, I started receiving invitations to evening soirées the moment I set foot back in Milan.
Trying to fulfill my duty as a friend, I casually RSVP’d to each and every outing or birthday celebration with the promise I would show up but with a clause: I would not stay late. Like a modern-day Cinderella, once the personalized digital clock on the screen of my smartphone hit 9:30PM, my natural inner timer started ticking; my eyelids began getting heavy, yawns would spontaneously catch me off guard. If the popping sound of wine cork tops meant cheerfulness up until that very minute, as soon as the clock’s hand tipped past the 30 minutes mark, I became overly sensitive and my 5 senses would go into overdrive. My body was telling me to leave. Who would have thought I would go from shots of tequila and dancing all night long to becoming overly zealous about an early bedtime?
Needless to say, within my friends’ circle, it’s become a joke. The night before writing this piece, I was due to attend not one, but two birthday gatherings.On the second leg of my night, after spending hours talking to the younger sister of one of the other guests about storytelling, brand narration and editorial ventures (she is a literature major at the Milan University), I checked the time and stoically let everybody know it was my time to go. One of my interlocutors, unaware of my stern daily routines, looked at me in disbelief. Why was I leaving such a lively environment so early? For me the answer was obvious: It’s Sunday night and I don’t want to be a zombie tomorrow morning – for them, I was just a boring grandma.
Everybody is entitled to their own opinion but I couldn’t help but wonder why is a healthy, moderate lifestyle considered an elder’s own?
I feel like, often, the opposite is glamorized–you know, the rockstar life–while pursuing a zen existence is deemed nerdy and uninteresting. Personally, I find my current way of living way better than when I was an erratic teenager. Additionally, I enjoy conversation and enriching exchanges..two things I can never find in crowded rooms when the music is loud, voices louder and people are on their fifth bottle of wine.
Is it not possible to meet for early breakfast, when my mind is fresh and relaxed? Or afternoon tea..the perfect moment to wind down from a long day of working? I wish these activities were taken into consideration more.
Leaving the party early isn’t for losers, it’s for morning people.
feeling like i can finally admit to myself and my friends, nothing really good happens after 11ish 💖🔓 especially when you can’t sleep in past 8am.
I absolutely loveddd this one 💘 I’m also team grandma and team morning coffee meetings.