I shouldn’t have been surprised by the smell, but I was.

It was a heady, intoxicating stench, a malodorous mixture of vodka and beer, marijuana and cigarettes, urine and vomit, and of course the sharp odor of thousands of sweaty bodies in close proximity. When I hit a particularly potent pocket, a sniff was almost enough to bring me to my knees. Which would not have been great because of the aforementioned vomit.

It was St. Patrick’s Day, and I was in Chicago.

Only a couple weeks before, I had been peacefully alone, somewhere slightly less smelly—my home.

I had spent a Saturday night, as I do many these days, pondering weak and weary at my desk, with a mug of hot coffee and an open notebook, searching for ideas to fill my latest Worthless Trash column. While I nodded, nearly napping, inspiration struck, and I jotted quickly: “Story about that time I spilled pudding down my pants in homeroom and all the girls laughed at me. Make it a metaphor for man’s inhumanity to man.”

Genius.

Satisfied that the muse had been kind that night, I shut my notebook. “I believe the time has come to sleep,” I said to the raven that perches outside my chamber window every night. I looked to the clock and saw that it was only 9:30.

That seemed quite early to sleep on a Saturday night. I remembered only a few years ago, I would often stay up long into the wee hours. On particularly ambitious nights out, many sunrises saw my face. Why was I going to sleep so early at age 28?

Does that make me lame?

No, of course not. Impossible. Preposterous. And then an idea struck, sudden and complete:

I needed to do something fun because I was definitely 100% not lame.

I grabbed my phone and dialed a number, that of an old friend, a man of legend and myth, known by outsize reputation in both circles of ill repute and vaunted chambers—some say a great man, others say a scoundrel, but none deny the magnitude of his being.

My boy Pete.

We went to college together. In those halcyon days, there had been many shenanigans, wild nights, hilarious regrets, unbelievable idiocy. Now we were both in our late twenties, but I was hopeful that a reunion might spark some similarly enthusiastic youthful inanity.

“Who is this?” Pete said. “If you’re with Giuseppe, I swear to God, I have the money. You just have to give me a couple weeks.”

“It’s me, Archer,” I said. “Your old pal? Funky Archero? Archie Pizzle? The Sauciest Chihuahua?”

“Oh, hey.”

“You have plans next weekend? I was thinking I’d come down to your place in Chicago for St. Patrick’s. I’ve heard it’s a lot of fun down there.”

Pete agreed, and I arranged to take a train to Chicago the following weekend to meet him for St. Paddy’s.

Now if you’re from the Midwest, you’re likely familiar with the reputation of Chicago’s St. Patrick’s Day celebrations. If not, allow me to provide a brief primer. Chicago: a river runs through it. They dye this river bright green. Then a legion of revelers surrounds it the entire day in a raucous party that overwhelms the entire downtown. Despite being from the Midwest, I’d never seen this legendary frivolity.

The following weeks were spent as all my weeks are—reading and writing, filing invoices, cleaning out the possum pit, etc.—and then that Saturday of craic arrived, and I woke early to take a train to Illinois.

I first realized something was wrong when the fetuses started screaming.

On the train nearing downtown, a flock of very young women a few rows down from me were drinking from milk jugs full of a bright green liquid—the particulars of the ungodly mixture I could only guess at—and as we drew closer to our destination, they began to screech in frantic, drunken exuberance.

“All right, I’m definitely not lame but … please be quiet,” I thought. “It’s nine in the morning, and I did not sleep well last night, what with my acid reflux. Also, you do not look old enough to be drinking. How would you like it if I called your parents, huh? I hope you’re being responsible. You should really have some water with that. I have antacids with me, too, if you’re—”

My thoughts were cut off by another round of ear-splitting shrieks. I quickly put my headphones in and cranked up the music to avoid losing my mind.

But there was a feeling. A strange sense sparked by those yammering, heavily intoxicated kids. I couldn’t put words to it. It lingered in my stomach like a 3 a.m. Taco Ball chalupa, stirring up my insides in a bizarre discomfort.

What was wrong?

I was probably just cranky and too sober. Everything was fine.

When the train arrived, those young women sprinted from it in a rush that bordered on a stampede. I imagined that if we could harness one-fifth of their determination to get drunk by a river and put it toward scientific research, we’d have a cure for cancer in four months.

As I left the platform, I realized that the women were just a prelude. The station was overrun with drunk children decked out in green, wielding jugs of unholy juices. The line for the bathroom stretched nearly half a mile.

“Dear God in heaven,” I thought. “Why did I do this?”

“Because it’s fun, you loser,” I answered myself. “Don’t you remember college? You’ve wielded a jug or two of unholy juice yourself. Don’t be a sourpuss.”

“Sourpuss? What a weird word to use.”

“Oh sorry, would you rather I call you a pathetic dork?”

“You don’t have to get all mad. Why are you always so sensitive?”

“I am not sensitive. You’re just extremely critical.”

“I am not critical. You’re critical. Now would you stop bothering me for a minute? God, it is hard to deal with you sometimes.”

Sorry. My brain can be a bit much. Anyways, back to the story.

As I left the station, a young man came running down the block, chased by four of his equally young friends.

“Bro,” they yelled. “Bro, stop.”

But bro did not stop.

He screamed a high-pitched vulgarity and then tripped and headbutted the concrete. As his friends surrounded him, he crawled to his feet, laughing hysterically. I believe he may have peed himself.

“This all seems quite irresponsible,” I thought.

There was that feeling again—the sense that something was wrong here.

I ignored it. I just needed to find Pete, and then everything would be fun again.

He texted me that he was running late so I hunkered down against the side of a building, ducking away from the brutal gusts of Windy City wind. As I waited, I listened to the conversations of the passing revelers.

“You should not have had that shot. You know tequila makes you sad.”

“Oh my God, we have to find Cat before she hurts herself. Then we can all pee.”

“[SLUR], [SLUR], [SLUR].” “Ronny, would you shut up? Someone’s going to punch you in the face.”

“Does that guy have a baby?”

“Jesus, please, I’m just trying to get to work.”

“Bro, I called the Uber. He’s pulling up.” “Why? We’re already here.”

“Alexis, we’ve already taken like eight selfies. We’re not even at the river yet.”

“Archer!”

My name broke me from the hypnotic eavesdropping. I turned to see Pete striding my way down the sidewalk.

The Pete I knew in college might well have been swinging two jugs full of vodka, giant green beads around his neck, hollering curses the sun—but Pete I saw now was empty-handed, wore a simple green sweater, and smiled calmly. You see, Pete had become a respectable professional, with an apartment and a good job and a mutual fund. I knew that—I’m not sure why I almost expected a 20-year-old to show up when I turned around. (There was that feeling again.)

“Hey, man. How’s it going?” Pete said.

“It’s going,” I said.

That may have been the peak of our enthusiasm that riverside afternoon.

We left the corner and wandered the streets. I have never seen such a wide stretch of city blocks so densely packed. It was shoulder-to-shoulder along the sidewalk, everyone forced to move in an awkward shuffle.

When we arrived at the river, the water was an arresting and vibrant green. Walking became increasingly difficult close to the bridges. Soon, every other step was marred by the stop-and-start of folks taking photos. We fought our way through until we found a free spot by a railing and stopped to look over the water a moment.

The river was actually quite pretty in its neon way, and for a few minutes I was able to ignore the noise and bustle of that crowd (along with the weird feeling that crowd brought up in me).

Then the smell hit.

I’ve already discussed the smell, and I’ll spare you another description. You see, you get that many people that drunk that close together, things slide downhill fairly quickly. The morning faded into a pungent afternoon. Inebriated turned into sloppy, and with that sloppiness came trash in the streets, streaks of urine on the walls, and vomit spewed from the railings down into the green river below.

The flocks of exuberant infants were in distress. Young women cradled their insensate friends, trying to keep them from passing out. Young men held back their belligerent buddies to prevent fights from breaking out over disrespectful glances. And just to mention one more time—puke flew like the geysers at Yellowstone.

“I thought we could stop for a drink,” Pete said, as we walked. “But we’re going to have wait like an hour to get in anywhere.”

He was being generous with that estimate. Just about every bar anywhere near downtown had a line stretching down the block. The thought of standing in one just for the privilege of paying $18 for a drink was exhausting. … And there was that wrong feeling again. What the hell? Why did I keep feeling that?

“How about we just head to this bar I know by my place,” Pete said. “I bet it’ll be quieter, if you’re cool with getting out of here.”

My first thought was, “Thank God.”

And then I understood the feeling that had haunted me all day.

I was growing up.

Your late twenties aren’t that distant from your early twenties in terms of years—but depending on how your life goes those years can form quite the gap.

When Pete and I were 21, we were stupid college kids with few responsibilities and the boundless energy that comes from those few responsibilities. Now, at 28, my whole life has changed. I work for a living. I have responsibilities and people that rely on me. I wake up early. I have a routine. I save my money. I watch what I eat. I occasionally apply a soothing balm to my bunions. And while I still enjoy a few drinks and some late nights, I no longer have the patience for the noise and the long lines and the stumbling, volatile crowds that I once did.

Does that make me lame?

Yup.

But that’s fine by me. No judgement to the wild ones who still have fun in those screaming crowds and loud clubs, but that’s just not me. It never really was—and I’m certainly growing up into a different kind of guy. An older, more easily irritated and lamer one, sure, but also hopefully a better one, with an understanding of who I am and what I enjoy.

All right, I thought, I’m OK with that. More than OK. Happy, even.

And with that acceptance, the feeling that had bothered me all day changed. It wasn’t so strange and unpleasant. Instead, it was pleasant, calm, knowing that I just didn’t really want to be there—and that I could have a lot more fun doing something else.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“Right behind you,” Pete said.

We ventured north of downtown, and as we did the crowd thinned out until we finally reached a point where breathing became enjoyable again.

Soon we found ourselves at a pub. Of course, it was full on St. Patrick’s weekend, but it wasn’t overflowing. We both had a few pints of Guinness, talked about nonsense, and passed the rest of the afternoon far from the madding crowd.

I have to say it was a nice, boring, quiet way for a lame 28-year-old to pass some time—and it definitely beat puking in the river.