You Can't Stay Here

In college, my mom would often say I was like one of my uncles, in that I was always the last one to leave a gathering. Between the lines, I think she was voicing concern that I might also be an alcoholic, but my friends back then really weren’t much of a drinking crowd. Like most geeks, I didn’t have my first beer until a few days before my 21st birthday. When I was out with my friends, we were just laughing, telling jokes and stories, and generally enjoying the whole group dynamic. If I was addicted to anything, it was socializing, and I hated to be the first one to leave. At some point, someone would have to make the first move, or comment that our hosts were tired, and once people started standing up and stretching, I reluctantly said my goodbyes and made my way to the door as well.

Not much has changed in the last decade. I’ve had more alcohol, and have even been drunk on a few occasions, but it never became a regular practice or something I had to do. Alcohol or not though, unless I was working or had to be somewhere else, I remained the last person to leave. I have to be really comfortable with people for them to see my dorky sense of humor, but a drink or two will also bring that out, along with bad dancing, off-key singing and the rare bout of freestyle rapping (That last old friend made an appearance at a happy hour on Friday).

I wonder sometimes if it’s an issue of self control, or of balance. Sitting under an umbrella with a cool breeze with a bottle in my hand and the sun setting, I was relaxed, content, and stationary. As people departed and conversations trickled, I wasn’t going anywhere. I may have zoned out, because at one point everyone I knew was standing, hugging, or shaking hands. “Everyone’s leaving, so you might as well get up,” someone advised me. People scattered in different directions, some home while others trekked to other bars. Suddenly, I was sitting in my car in an empty parking lot, and it was still light out.

As an adult, all things should be taken in moderation, from food to alcohol to fun to work. As a human being, it’s natural to always want a little bit more, even when we’ve had enough. The buzz had worn off, my second beer hours in the past, and I had a strong sense of “Where did everybody go?” I generally think I know when to say when, at least with alcohol, and certain signs like stumbling, confusing words, or breaking into a rap usually clue me in. I never know when to say when with other fun things, from hanging out with friends to watching television or playing a video game. I’ll be dozing at my keyboard playing a mindless clicking game. I’ll flip through channels with nothing on. I don’t go to sleep until I’m fully exhausted. Maybe self control is something that will come with true maturity, or maybe it’s something requiring a lot of hard work. I think I was so used to my parents calling me in to dinner when I’d play on the street as a child, that I don’t think I ever learned to call myself in.

I don’t think I’ve ever overstayed my welcome. On a few occasions in my mid-twenties, I did crash at a friend’s apartment in the city, but only because I was invited and after karaoke and vodka, I risked falling asleep on a train and waking up somewhere weird. If I did make it home, I doubt my folks would like what they saw. The first time I got home from a date at 3 AM, I found the house locked, and when I knocked on the window my dad started yelling about how our house wasn’t a hotel. I’ve had past supervisors send me home, telling me to finish my work the next day, and once before a holiday weekend one boss actually assigned what I was doing to someone else and more or less kicked me out. Possibly the closest I’ve come to staying when I wasn’t wanted would be the times I was in the gym literally one minute beyond closing time. After an e-mail memo or two on the subject, I made it a practice to finish working out no later than fifteen minutes before they had to lock up.

In the end, I don’t think the problem is that I lack an inner clock letting me know when it’s time to go. It’s like there’s still a child in my brain actively screaming, “I don’t WANNA!” At the most recent happy hour, I was talking to a friend I hadn’t seen in a while about his three-year-old son. The kid has discovered the phrase, “I don’t have to!”, and uses it when he’s told to go to sleep. That sums up the feeling I get when things are over before I’m ready for them to be. I think I’d write a lot less if I knew when to sum up my thoughts. Here’s a song in lieu of a solid closing paragraph: