Approaching my 30th birthday next February means a couple of things. First, there's deciding whether to drop $100 a month for the rest of my life and chase my hairline with a bottle of Rogaine.

I might let go of that one. I'm black and I look great bald.

No. 2: home ownership. Working on that.

Next, there are the issues of my slowing metabolism and an increasing need to shop at Casual Male XL. Easily remedied. I now snack on grapes instead of everything else and got a gym membership near my place with every intention of actually using it. Really.

Which brings me to a discussion I've been putting off for some time: hanging out at the bars.

Since moving back to Chicago in 2001, I've collected a large assortment of drinking establishments not unlike how a 10-year-old collects baseball cards. Tuesday means an open-mike night with my friends. Wednesday is either live band karaoke or $2.99 chicken sandwich and fries at a bar. Thursday equals watching a buddy of mine play classic rock and Dave Matthews. I'm off most Fridays (usually recuperating), but I'm back on Saturday and Sunday.

They've become - perhaps tragically - more than simple watering holes. I've celebrated accomplishments, negotiated business opportunities and counseled friends at these places. I learned how to croon in a faux-British accent on karaoke nights. I learned how to survive heartbreak.

But keeping up with that life may have moved beyond my means. I'm past the days of partying until 6 a.m., catnapping for two hours and arriving for work feigning bright eyes and a rested psyche.

Now I drag through the day after a night of bar hopping, more sleep-deprived than hung over, aching for my bed and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

But at some point you have to put these childish things away and grow up, join the "big kids" table and say goodbye to Neverland. (Did I miss any cliches?)

Time to put away the cowl and the fangs, says my rational side, and rejoin the living. Switch from night owl to chipper morning person, pick up the tie and briefcase and head for that 8 a.m. rush-hour traffic. That's the adult decision one should make.

Being an adult means doing what you have to do, especially when you don't want to. And in this case, that means giving up those pseudo-college indulgences for a good night's sleep, more stability in life and work and a better disposition overall.

Of course, there are additional benefits, not the least of which include reducing my chances of a sclerotic liver, heart attack, impotence and kidney damage, losing that aforementioned weight, feeling rested, feeling better overall, increasing my productivity, relieving stress and probably adding (or rather, recovering) years to my life.

Hmm ... OK. That's it.

No more Wednesdays.