No More Sundays in LA

Dear Friend,

I remember the day I left for college. I was sitting by the pool on a hot August afternoon in Indianapolis. My Motorola Razr was vibrating with text messages, people letting me know that they had arrived in Bloomington. 'When are you coming? We're going to a frat party tonight!'

School didn't start for another week and the dorms weren't officially open until the next day, but I had received an exemption to come down a day early and install my air conditioner.

"Mom, I'm ready."

My family packed up my brother's Trailblazer and a U-Haul full of all the college stuff; mini fridge, futon, TV and my entire high school wardrobe. We reached Briscoe Quad in Bloomington, IN and my family moved me in during 100 degree heat. By the time they left I couldn't tell if they were crying or just had overly sweaty faces.

Immediately two guys that I recognized from a rival high school introduced themselves as my neighbors. Then they introduced me to their secret stockpile of booze. Before long we were walking toward frat row to go to some party where one of my neighbors 'knew a guy."

This was my first Sunday on my own, and my first Sunday partying.

I met a girl from my orientation class and she ended up in my dorm room. This was the first time I had brought home a girl. The next morning at 7am I told her I had to meet with my advisor. This was the first time I had lied to a girl to get her to leave.

College progressed and Sunday would continue to be my beacon of hope. With afternoon classes there was no reason for me to spend all day at the library. I was the king of Kilroy's dollar double ups and Sunday ticket, the chief conspirator when someone tossed out the idea of a border run to get more booze. It's an hour and 23 minutes from Bloomington, Indiana to Weaver, IL. I once made it in 45 minutes.

I knew all the tricks to get around Indiana blue laws, growlers at a brewery, wine bottles to go and I always kept a stash hidden just in case. While everyone else was getting stoned and watching Planet Earth, I kept Sunday Funday alive.

After college, I moved to Chicago, got a job and I also started partying a lot harder.

I didn't handle the transition very well. Going from three hours of class a day to a real world with real responsibilities didn't suit me. I compensated by living for the weekends. I was out until 5am every Friday and Saturday and Sundays were spent at North Avenue Beach, Groundlings and Stanley's.

If I kept drinking and doing live band karaoke the prospect of Monday wasn't real. Sunday was all I had left, I would fight off the Sunday scaries as I sat on the couch for HBO TV, but I wouldn't stop partying. Once I stopped that, I was admitting defeat.

Once I got to California, things got better. I didn't hate my job anymore and I had Venice! I was doing Sunday Funday but for the right reasons! Grilling out, Bungalow, Volleyball and bottles on the beach. I was living the dream. I was still youngish. Like 25. I could drink all weekend, stop at like 9pm on Sunday, go to bed and I would feel like a 6 Monday mornings. I could give up alcohol completely and I would feel like a 6 Monday mornings.

As I got older it became a little more difficult. I REALLY started feeling it on those Monday morning flights after Vegas/Park City/NYC party weekends, I started to get a bit weary of those Sunday nights at Whaler, but I persevered. Sunday has always been the red-headed step child of the weekend, but I appreciated it. Giving up your Sunday was like giving up your soul!

Recently, my Sundays were hit or miss. Some days I would wake up and keep the bender going, others I would make a full commitment to recovery. You know the drill, three meals ordered in, watch an entire season of Bojack Horseman or restart The OC for the 7th time this year. In fact, I was about to have one of those such Sundays a few days ago.

I had gone on a boat all day Saturday and then stayed up until 6am doing drugs in Laurel Canyon with famous people. It was awesome. That is a good weekend. I could have stopped there and had a successful weekend. But then Sunday at noon, I got invited next door for brunch.

You know what happens next, Champagne, wine, liquor, beer, other stuff (off of body parts.) I find myself halfway in the bag around 5pm at Bungalow, a place I've been a million times and then something happens that has never happened to me before.

I just didn't have it.

I was too hot.

I didn't feel like drinking anymore.

I just really wanted to go home and relax.

Monday came and it was predictably horrible, but by Tuesday I was fully recovered. And Wednesday I am fully prepared to hit the town tonight. But something has changed within me. Looking to the future, I have lost the desire to party on Sundays. After an 11 year career, I'm hanging it up. I'm announcing here on my blog, my Sunday Funday retirement.

I'll still have a glass of wine at dinner, hell I'm up for a beer during the game. But Sundays from here on out are primarily for relaxation and recovery. I'd like to thank the people that made it happen; unemployed friends, leftover drugs and most importantly personal anxiety. We had a good run, but most of the greats know when it's time to hang it up. And today is that time.

Goodbye Sundays, I'll miss you.