Should I Be Home Or Something?
I’m 56, not dead. Why is going out at night now considered a Herculean feat?
Recently, I went to an incredible comedy industry party with my 17-year-old kid and got in at 1:30 AM—way past this reformed nocturne’s bedtime. It took an 11 PM Diet Coke to push through but I pulled it off, and something about it felt like a huge accomplishment. Just knowing I could still stay up and socialize that late made me feel as if I’d rescued a dormant part of myself, the kid who used to head out the door at the precise time I now insist on being in bed. Could I still manage a lifestyle that required cavorting into the wee hours? Probably not. But, according to the reigning pop diva Chappell Roan, everything good happens after midnight. I may no longer be interested in the same kind of “everything good” she’s referring to, but it felt oddly exhilarating to be reminded those experiences were still out there.
It’s funny how a few decades can alternately feel like a few lifetimes and a few years, and how our perceptions of ourselves can be colored by our perceptions of that span of time. Do we really age out of who we were when we stayed out late? Or do we, consciously or subconsciously, bend toward societal expectations to slow down as we get older?
I guess it depends on your lifestyle. As a culture writer, I have to be in the room where “it” happens, and by “it” I mean art gallery shows, live music, book readings by authors, live theater, film premieres, and yes, the most convenient art form of all, television. Energy levels be damned, I make a valiant effort to get to whatever interests me whenever I can, not just because they inform what I do for a living, but because bearing witness to real live creativity ignites a joie de vivre that brings me back to myself, to who I’ve always been. Usually, this requires venturing outside of the confines of my home, into the night. Luckily, I have a bunch of friends who are ready, willing, and able to join in the fun, but a few have grown more selective, even reticent. Some have begun to find driving at night a valid challenge. Others have just lost the nerve and the verve.
Do we really age out of who we were when we stayed out late? Or do we, consciously or subconsciously, bend toward societal expectations to slow down as we get older?
Pandemic lockdown had forced so many of us inward and left us out of going-out practice. Like the womb, when you get comfortable, home (if you’re lucky enough to have one) can be a hard place to leave voluntarily. Depending on who you share it with, it’s the only place on earth where you are king and what you say, goes. You have agency over who you talk to, what goes where, and who treats you like what. It’s a fortress in which to safely enclose yourself from the world, a world that blasts an endless, loud, loop of cacophonous demands that go quiet and stay quiet (if you have nice neighbors, anyway) ‘til the break of dawn. We work hard to make these containers for our true selves comfortable nests of splendor, where we can power down and reboot in peace, and reserve the right to enjoy them.
When I post on social media about whatever I go out and do, well-meaning commenters can occasionally sound a bit judgy:
“You’re always at a concert. I don’t know how you do it!”
“How do you always manage to go out?”
“Wow, you’re a dynamo! I never go out anymore!”
This attitude leaves me flummoxed. I’m 56, not dead. Why is it considered such a miraculous feat that I’ve put on pants and shoes, walked outside my front door, and found something fun to do? Am I supposed to be maxed out on the wonders of culture in my 20s and 30s and be home, watching stories in a housecoat (which I sometimes also do, if you count Real Housewives as stories)? Am I supposed to be so jaded that I believe I’ve seen everything there is to see in this huge wild world by now? There seems to be this hangover of old-school societal expectation that, once you reach a certain age, you should curtail your hankering for nightlife in favor of deepening the indent on your couch cushions. You’re supposed to have seen and done it all and be content with staying home.
I see the value in the quiet of my home and truly enjoy it sometimes. But being in the house too long without breaks can feel like a vacuous vortex that sucks me in and haunts me with its endless demands for improvement. There is always laundry that needs doing, toilet rolls that need changing, and trash that needs taking out. It’s all too easy to get caught up in a cycle of never-ending chores and justify the resplendent complacency of never going anywhere. The American thing about staying home might be a residual patriarchal stain as well; walk around any cobblestone street in Europe and I guarantee you’ll see a couple well into their 70s ambling home from somewhere cool after midnight.
Why is it considered such a miraculous feat that I’ve put on pants and shoes, walked outside my front door, and found something fun to do? Am I supposed to be maxed out on the wonders of culture in my 20s and 30s and be home, watching stories in a housecoat (which I sometimes also do, if you count Real Housewives as stories)? Am I supposed to be so jaded that I believe I’ve seen everything there is to see in this huge wild world by now?
Granted, the hauling of my skin and bones to and fro has become a little more weighty and arduous as the hours, days, and years have passed. I mean, I am 56. My roll has definitely slowed a little. I have become ever so conscious of time, at times even rigid with my current self-imposed curfew, that I check set times (I’ll root around Setlist.fm or social media to find out) at concerts to plan a clean, expeditious exit before the encore begins, no matter how much I love a song the band is about to play. Admittedly, the current me misses the stamina of the much younger me. She flexed a gumption and joie de vivre that could supersede space and time. Coming home at 1:30 in the morning was no big whoop.
I also recognize, though I’ve seen a lot, I still feel as if I haven’t seen anything. Right now, at this very moment, people are out there, mining the complexities of their emotional landscapes to create art in real time. Watching a TikTok of a scene in a play isn’t the same as hearing the actor’s voice, unfiltered, hit your eardrum. Scrolling past a 3”x3” image of a painting cannot possibly imbue you with the same understanding of its creation you can get by gazing at it in 3D. Bearing witness to the technical mastery, sloppy expression, and tiny streaks and indentations forged by the artist’s paintbrush on that very canvas is a tactical joy no virtual encounter can replace. Playing a download of a song—or even slapping on some vinyl—cannot replicate the dissonance, reverb, and aural spontaneity of seeing a band you love play a favorite song live.
As it turns out, plenty of folks feel as I do. A seven-month-old Reddit thread asking why people stop going to clubs when they get older and what DJs and promoters (like the commenter) could do to make events feel more inclusive for different age groups garnered over 400 comments. Plenty of people stay out late in their 60s and 70s, simply because they can.
Then, there are others in their 60s and 70s who’d like to find a way to bend the pleasantries of nightlife into daytime experiences. Sixty-five-year-old Jamie Lee Curtis famously implored Coldplay to do concerts during the day. “Why are there no matinees?” she asked on The TODAY Show. “I would love to go see Coldplay. The problem is, I’m not going to go see their show if they start at 9 o’clock and there’s an opening act. I want to hear Coldplay at 1:00 PM!” RuPaul, 63, has publicly fantasized about opening a daytime disco (which I would totally be down with, by the way). “Dancing around with other people creates this magic. I don’t have time to stay up the way I used to, which was so much fun,” he said. “But I would want to go to a disco at 11 AM. Have some smoothies. Check your phone at the door, because I want to get really sweaty. But it’s really about conjuring that communal spirit that’s missing in our culture today. Everybody’s doing this myopic navel-gazing that is not good for us.”
Plenty of people stay out late in their 60s and 70s, simply because they can. Then, there are others in their 60s and 70s who’d like to find a way to bend the pleasantries of nightlife into daytime experiences. Sixty-five-year-old Jamie Lee Curtis famously implored Coldplay to do concerts during the day. “Why are there no matinees?” she asked on The TODAY Show.
I’m with Ru. When I’m home, I have plenty of time to myopically navel gaze. Venturing out at night pulls me out of myself and keeps my brain firing on all cylinders. Don’t get me wrong, I love TV. It’s a delicious art form. But the predictability of a gerbil-on-a-wheel day-in-day-out existence without novelty, without adventure, to me equals a spiritual death.
If you aren’t on a guest list, it’s also a lot cheaper to stay home and read or watch TV than it is to go out. Life has become prohibitively expensive and inflation has made many experiences out of reach for a lot of people. But bearing witness to art doesn’t have to cost a lot or even any money. Museums have free evenings and free live performances are everywhere, it just takes a little effort and ingenuity to figure out where they are, put on your pants and shoes, leave your house, and get yourself there. Stay up past your bedtime, if necessary. See how you feel and how much you lament the hour or two of sleep you lost. As I age, I don’t know if a Diet Coke is going to be enough fuel for me to push through. But I know, the next day, I won’t regret it.
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Love this! I am 100% a matinee chick. If I go out at night, I know the show's running time. When I went to see Madonna last year, her legendary delayed start time was 10 pm, and I hung in there. Thank God I'd been smart enough to book a hotel room for the night. I trust my 60-something body clock that loves to go to bed early and rise early. Like this wonderful writer, I'll push it sometimes, but Jamie Lee and RuPaul have it right. Give me my mid-day disco, and I'm there.
I mean, I would probably be out late now too if I didn't have to wake up at zero dark thirty to schlep my tired butt to work every day (to pay for my nice nest!). I saw Madonna last year, the show started a fashionably 2.5 hours late (thanks Madge!) and by the second act, I had almost died, and even the most staunch party Queen had turned back into a bedraggled house servant. I am clearly waaaay too old for an 1145pm curtain time!!!