To my fellow former nightclubbers who now go to bed at 9

I believe that I have stated on several occasions that I am interested neither in traveling back in time or in reliving my younger and more exuberant years.

If one were interested in defining the more exuberant period of my life, I would direct them to ages 21 to nearly 25. As I approached 25, I began to realize that the exuberant lifestyle was not as appealing as it once was. Conveniently, that was also the time when B and I started dating.

The summer before B and I started dating, I moved in with a fellow fun-loving roommate. Our apartment, while extremely affordable, was located in a hoody area but was within walking distance of a vibrant part of the city that featured every type of food that you can imagine and more than a handful of night spots.

My roommate and I enjoyed our last call of bar hopping that summer. The details of such outings are not necessarily relevant here so I shall omit them but you can rest assured that we had an enjoyable time.

And as I mentioned, it was my last hurrah. Much as I admired the ladies in Sex and the City, I didn't see the bar scene fitting into my life on a long-term basis. A sour apple-tini, despite its ingredients, is simply not an adult beverage.

I gave up that scene and quite willingly, too. Friday morning breakfasts no longer consisted of bacon, egg, and cheese McGriddles, and Friday mornings were easier in general. I woke up refreshed and ready to enjoy my free time on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Life was better.

But I have to confess that I still have one link to my more exciting past and have not been able to get rid of it, despite all logical arguments that its existence in life is pointless and useless.

You see, I have a VIP card to one of the bars that I used to frequent. How I acquired the card is a story for another time. However, its existence granted me front-of-the-line privileges at an establishment that frequently had out-the-door waits.

I am not holding out hope of someday using the card. The bar, despite its awesome Sunday brunch buffet, is long gone from that location. (Though a sister bar does still exist in NYC. I assume they are related - same name and same font - but one never knows. However, my VIP card clearly states the bar's former address.)

So why am I unable to let go of the card? The fondness with which I view that time of my life has certainly not taken on a hint of wistfulness; I am not sorry to be done with that entire scene. But perhaps there is a part of me that wants to be assured that should I want to venture back, I could, and the transition would be seamless.

And so I continue to hold on to my VIP card, using it as a bookmark as I read in bed before going to sleep. And yes, I go to bed at 9, and yes, I get very cranky when life tries to keep me up past my bedtime. But my VIP card reminds me that once upon a time, I could--and did--shut 'em down with the best of them.