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There is something oddly romantic about going to bed at 7pm on a Tuesday.  Maybe it’s because you are certain that you will not somehow get roped into going out for a glass of wine that happens to turn into an all night binge ending with an egg and cheese from the Mott Corner.  You know for sure that you also won’t be up all night “playing internet” chain smoking and filling your brain with nonsense from blogs that other people stay up all night writing.  You will also definitely not be up watching movies off Netflix while consuming the pathetic remnants of your refrigerator.  In short, you’ll wake up, early! with that all too rare “I haven’t eaten since 5pm yesterday” thin feeling, and skin as soft as a babies (moisturizer seems to loose it’s place in the routine when drunk off booze, food, cigarettes, or the internet) and those dark circles that were creeping up will magically have vanished into the pillow that’s covered with sleepy drool.

Ok, maybe romantic was the wrong word.

Perhaps it’s that feeling that I get when I watch When Harry Met Sally, that comfortable “I love New York and my life so much that it’s ok for me to be asleep at 8pm and still feel worthy” feeling; it’s about feeling young, but acting old.  Only really old or really young people go to bed that early.  Let’s be serious, most of us 20 somethings don’t even leave the office or get to the bar that early.  It’s like an out of body snapshot of life that doesn’t really belong to me, that I’m stealing for myself to treasure just this one time; because I can, because I am actually tired and want to read The New Yorker in a safe place where I can’t be bothered by people watching or my left leg falling asleep at McNally’s book shop.  It’s heaven to be in bed that early.

Better live it up while I’m still young!

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