You can tell you're getting older by the parties you go to.
Lady Hem and I went to a friend's 40th, last Sunday. Once upon a time, a party would've meant alcohol; drugs; more alcohol; a little more drugs because you don't want to spoil the taste of the alcohol; then illegally driving to some dingy club to laugh at the over 40 divorcees trying to pick up your much younger friends. You'd wake up the next day next to a pile of vomit and your tongue would feel like you've spent the night licking the road.
Good times, good times.
Now, a party means a two hour drive to an out of the way winery; some ok - if not great - food; a couple of beers and polite conversation. You then drive two hours home in the rain to feed the dogs, watch some TV and go to bed. You mightn't wake up next to a pile of vomit but your tongue still feels like it's spent the night licking the road, then kicked you awake to make sure you can taste it.
Still: good times. It's great getting old. No, really. It sounds like I'm complaining but, in actuality, I'll take this sort of party over my younger days.
I just don't have the stamina anymore.