Drinks with friends. Simply getting together to grab some beers seems to get more difficult as we get older.

For instance, here's this (half-joking) e-mail exchange from earlier today.

Nick: Can someone tell me why the fuck we're meeting at dinnertime in a bar that serves no food? Whose stupid idea was that?
Martin: Who eats dinner at 7:30 anyway? Why don't you all eat dinner at a normal hour and then come out at 7:30, for after-dinner drinks?
Young: What fucking time do you eat dinner?
Me: I thought we were meeting at 8:30.
Nick: Arnie, go back to sleep.
Martin: 6 fucking 30 like a human. What time do you drag your bloated asses to bed if you eat dinner at 7:30?
Nick: On Wednesdays Martin attends the 4:30 Dinner Buffet at Sunnyside Retirement Community.
Young: You can't eat dinner at 7:30 and then go to bed? What fucking time are you going to bed? All bits aside, Martin, why the fuck are you 85 years-old?
Trupe: Martin has to leave time to be languidly bathed, doused in talcum, and swaddled in a robe.
Young: Fucking grow a pair, Wilson. Drink and eat late, then go to bed gassy and regretful.
Nick: Seriously, though, where are we eating?
Trupe: Nick, I have no fucking clue. Thanks for waiting until just over 2 hours before meeting to screw everything up though.
Martin: I am going home to eat with my wife, and you will all miss out on the inestimable pleasure of my company, unless someone emails a dinner plan in the next 6 minutes.
Me: So we're meeting at 7:30?
Trupe: Thanks to everyone who is actively ruining my chances of returning to my favorite bar in the city for the first time in about 9 million years.
Nick: Guys, if it's cool with you I'm going to have dinner at home with my daughters. Katie's making tacos!
Trupe: Nick, explain whether this is a bit or not within the next 15 seconds.
Me: 8:30?