And you better believe that those four months were awesome. Sure there were ups and downs, but when I look back on it, I think that I was living my life every second of every day. But once September rolled in, I decided I needed to re-evaluate my current predicament. I looked around and my fellow graduates were off to their fancy pants nine to fives or registering for classes at their graduate schools. Some were studying for GREs, MCATS, and other acronyms that I have no idea what they stand for. Bitches traded their Uggs for trousers! And where was I? I had not accomplished anything this summer, besides gain weight and get a tan. Neither of which were going to help me in the long run (Skin cancer is no joke kids. Layer that sunscreen). So I decided to be proactive. I got an internship at a film/television production company. I also started working more hours at my part-time job at a New York University office. I was finally planning for my future. Sure my grandiose goals of beings a screenwriter/actor/director/
For the first time in months, I had adopted a rigid schedule. There was no more "Hey, there's a party in DUMBO. Open Bar, you down?" I was a member of the party on weekends club; the club I vehemently despised during my summertime high. Members of this group are so unhappy and are lacking of spunk during the weekdays, they muster up the small bit of energy they have left to come party on a Friday/Saturday night. These people can be easily identified by the flip flops they don, the stringy hair, and the lack of hygiene they seem to possess. I hate these people. During the summer, I never partied on weekends. I was the girl who was down for a Tuesday party session. I went out every Thursday and my Wednesdays would commence with trivia at 8pm at my favorite bar and end with me eating hard dough bread in my bed at 6am (that story I will save for another time, but let me warn you, it is EPIC).
Now if you asked me to catch a drink after work on a Wednesday, I would have to respond "Oh no, I have a pilates class". Oh yes, in my attempt to grow up, I got a gym membership. I've got to take care of my old, creaking bones. Soon I'll be taking vitamin supplements and carrying hard candies in my purse. Wait, I already do those things. I have officially crossed over to the dark side, where all my enjoyment will come from people giving me their seat on the bus and disciplining other people's children. What was supposed to be a graceful entrance into adulthood that should have spanned over two years, turned into a mental hijacking that developed in less than 3 months. It was this realization, coupled with a phone call from my bestie Bridget, whom I hadn't seen in months, that set me off. She basically said " I miss who we used to be. We used to go out every night". I miss who we used to be as well. I wanted to enjoy life again. The apocalypse is waiting in the wings and instead of carpe diem and other latin phrases that have been immortalized on t-shirts and mugs, I have been squandering my youth. I don't want to wake up and be forty with kids and realize I never lived to the fullest of my abilities. I want to get shit-faced. I want to make out with random guys and regret it the next morning. I want have that Sunday walk of shame, wearing hooker heels, and copious amounts of black lace, while my face is creased by the faux pillow I slept on the night before. I want to go home with make up running down my face and devouring a falafel, while children are on their way to school. Sure these things might not get me far in life. They probably would put me in a jail cell. But hey, that's why your best friend's mom is a police officer (Hey Bev! I need Bail money).
So in the spirit of regaining my summertime high, I decided to plan an awesome dance party. I wanted all my friends to come out and dance till the wee hours of the morning and be so elated that they'd be singing show tunes on the way home. I sent out the Facebook invites, the emails, and shitloads of text messages. It was supposed to be a girl's night out, but somehow the boys made it through. No worries though, because the more the merrier in this kind of scenario. I wanted to go to Arlo and Esme, because every time I've been there, I have had a good time. We pregamed at Julianne's place and we (Julianne, Kayla, Doreen, Sonia, Allen, and myself) tracked down two cabs and headed to the LES. However, when we got there, the bouncer said they weren't letting anyone in for another hour. Are you kidding? In another hour, I'll be sober. Fuck that. So we went to some weird hookah bar, where my gay night-life lover (again I'll save him for another story) got us in. Soon after arriving, the fumes and the seedy atmosphere got me and we had to bounce. Now I should mention, my entire party was pretty buzzed. I had been drinking with Sonia, my fellow intern, since 7pm, and I hadn't eaten since 3pm. A recipe for awesomeness. Seeing the momentum was slowing, I suggested we all head to Darkroom. On our way we ran into Melissa and Harold and our gang was almost complete. However when we got there, there was a muthafuckin line! WTF? This night was going to be disastrous.
Now usually in moments like this, if the universe sends me signs that the night is going to be a shitshow, I heed the commands of nature and get my ass home. This time, howbeit, I was too determined to beat Mother Nature at her own tricks. Here's a lesson to all you kiddies reading this at home: Nature always win. Why I forgot this principle can be attributed to the amount of ethanol coursing through my veins. Luckily, I knew one of the bouncers there. When I tell you I used to go out every night, I mean it. There are certain members of the night life community that I have built relationships with regardless of what bar they work at that specific night. So my dude let us in and skip the stupid line. Thank the heavens. We get in there but the DJ is whack. The sound system sounds like they boosted it straight out of an elementary school auditorium. Fuck it. As long as he plays my song, what do I care?
We start dancing and then Naimah calls me and tells me she's outside. So of course I go and get her so she doesn't have to wait on a stupid line. Once I'm back on the dancefloor, Doreen tells me her boo, Dave, is outside and if I could get him in. Sure, why not? I get out into the breezy, chill air and cannot find Dave. After playing hide and go seek for five minutes, I finally discover him and get him in as well. While I was gone apparently the interior dancefloor bouncer (as if they pay him) says they we can't put our jackets down. We either have to hold them or pay coat check. According to him, I can't even dance next to my jacket. So this prick, who doesn't realize that we're the reason anyone is in his club, is trying to tell us what to do. Party Foul Number One. At the same time when I'm giving him the brush off, Doreen tells me that Allen, Julianne's boyfriend, got kicked out of the bar. Apparently he had a conversation with the DJ and the bouncer felt that it was inappropriate. Yes I know that sounds farfetched but we were all drunk. If Doreen had told me that Allen farted chickens on the Bouncer's lap, I would've pulled out my barbecue sauce and bib that says "Where the beef?". So don't judge me!
Since I'm such a good friend, I hightailed it outside to be joined by Dave who is trying to debrief me on the situation. After talking to him for five minutes, I used my Sherlock skills to assess that he knew nothing. So we left Julianne to decipher the drama and returned into the bar to be greeted by several cops. And I mean several. Like at least seven. Now in my younger days, police officers showing up to your party meant hiding the liquor and sending out the most sober of the bunch to explain to the law enforcers their need for a warrant to search the premises. Basically, "party dun!" And apparently the DJ agreed because the music stopped and the crowd filtered out. Now my gang remained because 1) we're cool like that and 2) Allen was MIA. Julianne returned to the bar sans Allen, who apparently had been wearing my coat. Yes, folks, we were so inebriated that my frilly looking coat seemed appropriate for him to wear inside out. I can't blame him. This night was my idea. So in my frustration I asked the Popos what the problem seemed to be. The female copper replied "Nothing. We're waiting for the music to start again". Typical, even the police officers have more fun than me nowadays.
Eventually the music did start again and $3 shots were offered to the masses. Nonetheless, I was done. I wanted this night to be about regaining my youth and to be one for the history books. I wanted this to be the night when we're thirty and old, we would look back on this night and recall the days when we "lived". This was not that night. So I accepted defeat and took a cab home that cost me fifty bucks. I crawled into bed without food in my belly but enough alcohol to kill an elephant, or at least sedate him for two hours.
Maybe I can't go back to those blissful days of summer, but I don't think I have to start wearing muumuus, cleaning the dishes barefoot, while watching Maury. There has to be some middle ground where I can salvage my youth without destroying my future. There must be somewhere where I'm not at the starting point of nascency but I'm not yet at the finish line of decrepitude. It has to exist. And I think I know where it does. Somewhere between Sunday and Saturday---here I come Wednesday.