Last week, my best friend texted me from Sundance, the momentary mecca of hip, “Is it so sad that I’m just not into the idea of a party scene anymore?”
No girl; it’s not.
Being in your late 20s can be awesome, for so many reasons. Most find financial stability, forgive their settling bodies, and generally feel pleased by the realization that they’ve given all the fucks they have to give.
But there’s one thing we just can’t seem to reconcile: PARTYING.
It seems to be the remaining area of our lives where we’re still trying too hard. SO HARD. The most hard.
Because the thing is, most of the time we don’t want to go to a bar, let alone even drink a perfect $12 Old Fashioned. The term “pre-party” has completely lost meaning. We don’t want to go to a house party unless there’s going to be at least five good friends, because meeting new people for the sake of meeting new people is no longer interesting. We don’t want to get dressed up unless it’s for a nice dinner with a giant glass of wine, after which we can go home and pass out while watching HBOGO. And honestly, if you dare hold your birthday party outside the five mile radius, we’re sending a “sorry, can’t make it” text.
It’s not our fault. We’re just…old(er). And it’s not just because drinking and not getting enough sleep is physically harder to bear. It’s just that we’ve all done this before. We’ve been there, done that, and don’t really need to relive the hangover from drinking too much tequila and consciously engaging in reckless texting. No one thinks our silly behavior is adorable anymore.
And yet, we can’t give it up. What are we trying to prove? We can’t let go of the idea that we NEED to go out, because going out is fun, and having a great time drinking in public with a bunch of people is apparently a very crucial indicator of a successful social life, according to Instagram. The documentation of the event holds equal weight to the act of going out itself. “Hey world, we made it! We made it out past midnight! Look at this cool cocktail. Yeah it’s my SECOND!”
The sands of our hourglass are falling all too quickly. We know we don’t have much time left until we officially become the creepy old people, who haven’t been hip in years, lurking in the corners of the bar. We are so desperately grasping at those tiny little grains of feeling young and alive, because our society runs on the blood of twenty-two year olds and we’re slowly losing the familiar metal tinge on our tongues.
And if the stinging reminder of our numbered days through sore knees and puffy eyes isn’t enough, we still need to battle our growing nostalgia. We tend to remember our more youthful cheap vodka-soaked days with rose-colored lenses, patching together a series of movie magic moments that never really happened, and conveniently forgetting the mistakes, poor judgment and icky feelings. Those things always manage to get filtered out of every #tbt post.
That’s what we do every weekend, against our better judgment, try to recreate skewed memories. Every Friday we make plans during the day to go out that night, excited that we can all feel fulfilled and satiated that we’re “doing it right.” And every Friday night, at 9pm we mutually agree that the week has been exhausting and we’re not missing out on much.
And we’re correct; we’re not missing anything exciting. Or maybe we’re missing the best party that ever was. Either way it doesn’t matter much.
We’ll try again on Saturday night, after we’ve gotten a decent night’s sleep.