Stay up a little later. Not every night. Sleep is important. I have become old enough to respect sleep in a way I certainly did not at twenty-five. But sometimes the night deserves another hour. You know those evenings. Dinner is finished. The check has come. Nobody wants to leave. The conversation has moved past the polite part and into the good part. Someone says, “One more?” This is a dangerous question. Also, occasionally, the correct one. One more drink. One more story. One more walk around the block. One more song. One more hour before tomorrow begins. I think life is partly made from those decisions. Not the enormous ones. The tiny yeses. Stay. Come. Go. Call. Wear it. Order dessert. Take the trip. Kiss him. Maybe not him. Use judgment. But you understand.
We spend so much time preparing for life. Saving. Planning. Working. Improving. Protecting. Scheduling. All necessary. Yet life itself keeps happening during the preparation. This is the problem. We imagine some future version where everything is settled. Then we will relax. Then we will travel. Then we will have time. Then we will wear the beautiful thing. Then we will become who we meant to be. But life does not appear to have a ceremonial starting gun. This is it. Monday. Thursday. Tonight. The weird ordinary afternoon. The person across from you. The body you currently have. The city you currently live in. This exact age. I find that both comforting and alarming. There is no waiting room. We are already inside. So I would like to become better at noticing. This dinner is good. This man is making me laugh. The weather is beautiful. My dog is happy. My body works. My friends are alive. The view is lovely. I am here. Simple things. Not because difficult things do not exist. They do. Loss. Aging. Fear. Disappointment. Life is not improved by pretending otherwise. But sadness does not invalidate pleasure. They coexist constantly. Perhaps maturity is learning to hold both. Things end. Enjoy them anyway. People age. Love them now. Bodies change. Use them. Cities change. Walk through them. Relationships may not last forever. Be present while they are good. There is something liberating about accepting impermanence. You stop demanding guarantees before allowing yourself to care.
Nothing comes with guarantees. This is annoying. Also freeing. A great night does not need to become a lifetime in order to have mattered. A beautiful trip does not fail because it ended. Summer does not become tragic because September exists. The ending is part of the shape. I think this is why some of my favorite memories are nights that extended slightly beyond reason. Nothing monumental happened. We simply did not want to go home yet. The restaurant closed. We found somewhere else. Walked. Talked. Sat somewhere. The city changed around us as the hour got later. Daytime people disappeared. Streets became quieter. Somewhere around midnight, ordinary life loosens its grip. You are no longer doing what you are supposed to be doing. You are just there. I love that feeling. Late nights create temporary worlds. Especially in cities. Windows lit above you. Cars passing. A bar with six people left. Someone cleaning. Someone falling in love. Someone making a mistake they will discuss with friends tomorrow. Human life continuing after respectable hours. There is romance in it.
Of course, staying up later is metaphorical too. Stay interested a little longer. Stay hopeful. Stay playful. Stay curious. Do not retire emotionally before your body requires it. I think people sometimes begin withdrawing from life far too early. They become cautious. Then comfortable. Then increasingly convinced that everything good already happened. I refuse. The past gets enormous as we age because there is more of it. That does not mean the future has nothing to offer. It is simply shorter. Different problem. Potentially useful motivation. I want to keep having firsts. New cities. New people. New ideas. New restaurants. New technology. New mistakes. Perhaps slightly better mistakes. I want to remain surprised. I want to meet people who change my mind. I want to laugh at things I don’t yet know are funny. I want to see places I cannot currently picture. I want evenings whose stories haven’t happened. That is the part of the future I love. It is unwritten.
And I don’t need every future experience to be extraordinary. Most won’t be. Most life is ordinary. Breakfast. Walks. Emails. Errands. Sleep. Maybe the art is making ordinary life porous enough that beauty gets through. The good coffee. A funny text. Someone holding your hand. Sun on the floor. Music from another room. You do not need fireworks every day. Fireworks would become annoying. But you need attention. Attention turns ordinary life into experience. And maybe that is the thread running through everything I have been thinking about. Luxury. Romance. Travel. Style. Food. Men. Cities. Aging. Technology. Adventure. None of it matters much if you are not actually there for it. Presence may be the ultimate sophistication. You can own the beautiful dress. Wear it. Book the trip. Go. Love someone. Tell them. Want something. Try. Have the dinner. Stay for dessert. And when the evening is lovely and someone says: “Should we go?” Maybe sometimes look at the clock. Look at him. Look at the half-finished glass. And say: “Not yet.” Stay up a little later. Life has already started.