Saturday night, I slumped down in the back seat of the cab, a little drunk and a little proud of myself for (kinda) being able to do the responsible thing and shell out the cash for a cab ride home (back in the day when Maddy could accompany back to Astoria, I'd have probably taken the subway, but, um, there are psychos -- lots of 'em out there. Also, I am lazy). But my buzz was fleeting when the cab driver began making fun of me.

"So early! What happened?"

I glanced at my phone: 1:35. That's early? I mean, I guess -- certainly I don't lead the most slammin' night life ever, and yes, I could stay at the bar until it closed at 4 am. I also could do a few lines of coke, hook up with some international i-bankers and dance on a tabletop, but frankly, I didn't really think the situation called for it. Anyway, it was well after midnight, did it really warrant such mockery?

"Oh, nothing, I'm just tired," I said with a casual wave, because, for some reason, I felt the need to justify myself to the cabbie.

"Ahhh," he said with a sort of snort that I took to be mixture of condescension and bemusement. "You go out how many nights a week? Four? Five?"

I'm not really sure what he was getting at. Clearly, we'd established my career as a Party Girl was not something I pursued with great seriousness.

"Uhm, I guess, two? Three?" Does dinner at the most geriatric diner in the Lincoln Center area followed by an 8 o'clock showing of Wordplay count as "going out"? Does it really matter?

"Ahhh." The condescension/bemusement again.

I was tempted to tell him how I was kind of over that party scene, how I had things to do in the morning, how my boyfriend would be coming home from work when I got back, how even if I could regularly afford to stay out until 4 am getting wasted, it didn't particularly appeal to me, but then, I realized it really didn't matter.

I was mostly quiet for the rest of the ride home, shrugging and making non-committal "hmm" sounds when he complained about the guy begging for change at Queens Plaza and offering quiet "ahh's" that vaguely implied mild agreement but lack of interest in pursuing a conversation on the topic of how great Guiliani was. I don't know why I did that; I don't really think it's fair to assume the guy at Queens Plaza was faking his limp, nor do I think Guiliani was the greatest thing to happen to New York. But despite the disapproval his "Ahhh's" seemed to imply, it was late and I was tired and, in the end, I didn't feel like getting into it.

Because it didn't matter.