Wild Oats

Youth is a drug only craved once the bar closes and all of your friends returned to their separate homes. The thrill you had walking from the car into the building proudly and in short shorts with a skin tight top is replaced with exhaustion and embarrassment for having the sweat chill your body to its core causing you to hunch over yourself to preserve warmth. There is something to be said about the rush of dancing, knowing all eyes were on you, and knowing that you were a spectacle to behold. Bodies of strangers pressed against each other in passing. Towards the middle of the room you stayed so the mesmerizing lights of the disco ball can blind you to the seedy elements cleaving to darkened outer edges. You could kiss a stranger, if you want to, and then move on to another dance partner.

Suddenly life pulls you away. There is no plan of action, no warning, no lack of desire for the old haunt. The monotony sets in and settles into your suffering joints. Finding a friend to re-liven the moment you truly felt powerful becomes as hard as finding the right shape wear to pull in your midsection to fit into your old skin. Once you return to the scene of your own historic envy, you realize that the crowd no longer parts to welcome you in. Your body is rigid and no longer fluid with the waves of music, and your companions insist on conversing instead of singing along. The feeling sinks in and you realize that you've outgrown a pass-time that once gave you a purpose. You've aged while the building has echoed without fading. The past is within reach but too slippery to fully grasp onto.

You've become pushed to the side of the room where the crowd is volitile and crude. The bartender ignores your waving hand and gesture of promise to pay. Instead they focus on the fresh meat to properly marinate with the proper amount of beer and salt. The memories taste like sweet and sour apple shooters and this new reality feels the floor sticking to the sole of your shoes as you squeak around to the other side of the bar. What's worse is a trip to the bathroom rings the bell in your head, raising all the alarms that you are old. Not ancient but unwilling to fight with a stall door which refuses to latch.

The party is over once two drinks send you spinning down the toilet for more than five minutes. The betrayal of time sits bitter on your tongue as you recount the last time that you felt whole and brave. Must life now be quiet and safe from the landmines you sashayed in lucky avoidance of before? You have no choice now but to call a cab, then taking the three showers necessary to wash the shame, the embarrassment, and the mourning out of your hair.

You didn't know. When the last time is the last time, how could you know? The memories play in your head like a home movie. The highlights, the pride dipped bravery-savory moments provided by the ignorance of youth. It all used to melt the ice of obligation from your veins. Letting go feels like tying a piece of your soul to a balloon and wondering if the balloon might pop and bring it back to you one day. This moment is a fork in the path of life. You can choose to jones for the drug you could no longer afford or you can lunge forward in an attempt to find a passion for breathing in the frosty air of morning, covered head to toe, and become the witness of your own greatness. Had you sewed your wild oats before, you can now eat up the oatmeal with little fear for having missed out.