It seems like a lifetime since I stayed up partying until 3 a.m. I don’t miss the carnage of the morning after, but I definitely miss the manic energy that kept me up, wide awake and drinking like a thirsty fish, until well after the most sensible barkeep had long since set his or her head upon a pillow. The last time I did it, I was with a gang of girlfriends, reliving old times, drinking a fabulous concoction, talking far too much and far too loudly. I finally went home to bed because it was the only place still open at that hour.

Now my nights usually end sensibly at 11 o’clock. I can’t remember the last time I had a truly blistering hangover. And though I don’t miss them, I do miss what they said about what I’d done the night before. Unlike the days of carnage, I’m now in a very serious relationship, which, in a month and a half, will become a marriage. As joyful as that is, the engagement ring brought a host of unexpected side effects, including the draining of nearly every ounce of my late-night, party-animal soul. These days, when deciding what to do on the weekends, my fiancé and I almost always choose a night on the couch over a night on the town. Are we getting old? Are we becoming boring? Are we acting like an inert married couple already? Yes. Yes, we are.

At this point in our relationship, the idea of the two of us spontaneously putting on the party duds and going out clubbing at 10:30 on a Friday night seems ludicrous, although for the life of me I don’t know why. He’s a fun party guy (a Brit and a rabid soccer fan; you do the math), I’m a fun party girl (I crashed a French count’s birthday party one crazy night in Paris), so between us we have some serious party cred. What the hell happened?

There’s a new, mysterious dynamic at work here. My fiancé and I just don’t have the same kind of fun when we go out " partying " as my friends and I do. I’ve noticed this with other married or long-timer couples, too. People in relationships don’t talk to each other the way that party friends talk to each other. Party friends usually haven’t seen each other in a while, so there’s gossiping to be done, stories to be told, vicious rumors to spread, failed relationships to dissect, shopping stories to share, jokes to bust ribs over — and most important, there are members of the opposite sex to jointly ogle. There’s a palpable energy in the air, fueled by conversation and booze. The wine flows, there is laughter and merriment, and then everyone goes his or her own way. The next day they’re exhausted and feel like hell — which is why they don’t see each other very often.

Most of the activities that fuel the manic energy that keeps us up until 3:30 a.m. aren’t possible with one’s significant other. We see each other every morning and every night; he doesn’t know the people I’m gossiping about, or if he does, he couldn’t care less about them; he’s a pragmatist who doesn’t listen to rumors; he’s heard all my stories; and the only member of the opposite sex I’m interesting in ogling is him — and the ogling is a lot more interesting when we’re at home, if you catch my drift.

Yet I sensed that there was some other sort of energy keeping me going during those crazy nights (and occasional mornings) of yore. It wasn’t just the company; the energy was coming from inside me. It was a force that wouldn’t let me go home until the last light in the bar came on and someone was physically escorting me from the premises (politely, of course).

This fact became painfully clear one Friday night as my fiancé and I were heading to bed at 11 o’clock — in itself, not atypical. But on this particular Friday night, we were in Las Vegas, at the casino in the Aladdin Hotel, surrounded by noise, lights, booze, and party people, including two friends we hadn’t seen in months. In another life, I would’ve been perched at the bar, drinking bourbon and laughing my guts out at something one of them said. I would have been awake, alive, and ready for whatever came my way. As it was, I could barely keep my eyes open. Finally, filled with longing for the girl I used to be, I said to my man, in a symphony of understatement, " I sort of miss that manic energy that used to keep me up until the wee hours. I wonder where it went. "

" These days, you know how the night is going to end, " he said, barely breaking stride, as if he’d never been confused about the source of my enervation. " You have a nice dinner, a couple of drinks, climb into bed, fall asleep, and get a little in the morning. " He was right. The energy and spirit that kept me up till the wee hours was only partially my party-animal soul — a soul which I have been ignoring of late, but which I know still lurks in there somewhere.

The rest of that energy came from a little voice somewhere deep inside my psyche, so soft that I didn’t even realize it was there until it went silent. It was the voice that said, " You can’t go home yet. He might be here. And if you leave, you’ll miss him forever. " I’d never thought of myself as a woman on a manhunt during my single days, but now I see how much that hunt fueled me. My boundless party energy was born of the same kind of manic panic that gripped me as a child, lying in bed, the sun still out, the older kids playing outside my window in the fading daylight. I was convinced that I was missing something important.

These days, the voice is silent. The man I feared I’d miss is right here next to me. I’m no longer afraid I’m missing something or someone. The manic panic has subsided.

Kris Frieswick can be reached at k.frieswick@verizon.net