The First step to recovery is to admit you have a problem, or something...

“You know, someone was asking me the other day what my ideal job would be…in other words, what would I do for nothing and still be totally happy.” The girls and I always had conversations like these, especially during chill sessions; they resembled a languid symphony of consciousness rather more than traditional back and forth conversation.

“And?” I popped my head in from the balcony, dragging on my cigarette.

“Fuck else!” She noted, lying back. “I wouldn’t do anything for free. Maybe go to pilates everyday?"

“Don’t forget the charity work,” D added mockingly, “quite key my love.”

Quite. This conversation had occurred in numerous iterations on as many different days. As freshman, we lingered over 4 dollar chai's from the student run coffee shop, wondering whether we should study Economics or “Culture” (I chose culture- quel surprise). Since then, we’d consulted to governments abroad on market transparency, performed equity research in 2 different markets, lead trading risk management initiatives and worked for 2 internet startups (all in the span of 3 years) and yet we found ourselves returning to the same desire- to do fuck else but contort into mildly painful positions and drink bellinis at noon.

What was this odd casualty of privilege that drove us ever further in goals we really had no desire to attain ? Was it a testament to our passion for the simpler things, or a manifestation of our pervading apathy that the only thing we'd ever do for free was nothing at all? Why didn't we, as my friend Jason so aptly noted last week over drinks at Merc Bar, "quit before the first wrinkles set in and do what we were meant to do," by which he surely implied get married to someone as self important as him (just kidding- heart you J!).

No but seriously, I pondered this; in fact I have been pondering this, for the last few years or so, and I’ve finally arrived at an answer that is satisfactory.

It's not so much the stretching that sounds attractive as the elusive vision of drinking Champagne and Peach Schanpps at noon. What we really wanted, we realized as we delved ever deeper into the inquiry, was to push happy hour up approximately 6 hours. And have the time to burn off the calories so consumed.

What we really wanted in life was to indulge our Mild to Mel Gibson-grade Alcoholism.

I think we can all agree this is, like, lofty to the extreme.