Usually around this time of the night, after the bars have closed, the wind is harsh, cold, and biting. This physical pain cuts through all others, and becomes a driving force to get one home or back to their vehicle.
One cannot properly prepare for this frosty wind since they dress to impress, or they dress for their surroundings. If you are going to spend half an evening in a hot and sweaty dance floor, dressing for the walk out is the last thing on your mind. Even if you managed to bring a coat for that final walk, you probably lost it along the way through the course of the coarse malaise. If you did manage to dress warmly for the walk home, you spent most of the night sweating, and the sweat just makes the wind even colder. The alcohol makes the body think it is warmer, which makes a cool breeze, an artic blizzard. That alcohol effect would explain how one could be cold in Florida in the spring, or is it summer?
The irony of the situation is each night begins with emotional hopes and ends with physical pains. The two are unrelated to each other, hence the irony. One more fix in a string of short-term gains at the expense of long-term returns. The credo of the weekend warrior: Live in the here and the now, regardless of responsibility and repercussions.
They come seeking reckless abandon, and are invaders to the sanctity of the psyche. Their egotistical drive and desire to feed their insecurities push them forward. I sought reckless abandon one time, and in retrospect the failure was a success. A ten-second pause is all you need to avert disaster. Perhaps if I indulged more, then life would be different. Life would be different; it would have disaster in it.
It is a shame that they will get absolutely nothing done the next day, but recover. That is the long-term return for this evening, recovery. Perhaps in three days you will call that number you triumphantly sequestered. It is a shame that you do not remember their name.
Given ten more hours, you will forget what they look like too. Chances are they will forget they gave you their number, and you can try to get the number again next week. A lot of nothing accomplished, and nothing worth remembering happened tonight.
Ah, but those were glorious times are these you will say, leading to great memories, which unfortunately you will forget completely before you even make it home. You will instead have a cross between perceptions of what happened colored with your new mood for the walk.
Did you wear the right clothing? Did the right people notice you? Did you leave anything physical behind? Did you say the wrong thing, and did that person take note of it? Can you even tell this night a part from the one the week before? The month before? Rinse, cycle, repeat. All these questions are meaningless.
The whistling howl of the wind replaces the loud barrage of 85 plus decibel chatter, music, and beats from earlier. The person is out to find solace, familiarity, and the comfort of a warm place to drift off into a slumber land. This is also the time of the night that the semi-cognizant replay the events of the night over in their mind. This is a study on what went wrong and what went right.
In retrospect, what went wrong was I never did end up eating pizza after the bars closed on my way home. There is still time though, and it is time to turn back my collar to welcome the unknown. The rain stopped over an hour ago and pizza sounds very tasty in this drunken haze. I am in no rush to get home, still lacking a bed to sleep in. Might as well live in the here and the now with a fresh slice of gooey cheesy delight. Who knows whom I might run into on the way there, or the way back?
The rain might have stopped, but now the Florida early morning fog creeps closer in the distance. Weekend warriors transformed into zombies in the mist. What glorious times are these indeed, what glorious times indeed?