We used to party. During Drake Relays, I watched Scott do his part to help his frat kill a keg in an apartment parking lot. We danced in dimly lit, barely-furnished, white-washed, college-owned houses rented by a student maybe one person in the group knew. We watched Super Hornio Brothers and then hours of YouTube videos and laughed way too loudly and went out to the alley for 3 AM cigarettes. We played Chatroulette bingo and drank Eastern European hooch and fell asleep one by one in piles or were carried to bed in another room.
Me, my friends, my husband Scott — we just have fun and we’re nice people, as I once drunkenly explained. But the fun faded. We got older. We started waking up feeling shittier, we got stung by party drama, and people started having babies, and worst of all: the parties started getting more polite. Even the most angry of ragers featured tiki torches and little smokies. Don’t get me wrong! We still have beautiful friends and we’re still having fun, but party life has gotten stale. It’s not about the booze — there have been incredible nights when every guest was stone-cold sober — it was about the level of awesome our parties used to reach. It’s like our friends just gave up the party ghost.
Case in point: we’ve lived in this house a year and only one person has barfed in our toilet. There’s something about that morning after when you lay in bed (or on the carpet) for a while, trying to remember why your buddy was thrash dancing with a giant fire extinguisher or what, exactly, your disagreement with that monk was about. And there’s no reason not to keep having college kid parties just because we’re 27!
Believing this fully, Rockethaus planned “I wanna get stupid with U,” a party meant to summon back our party spirit animals. Kegs were mentioned. Flyers were shared. Rules decided upon. We invited just a few people — not enough for a legit all-nighter, but our re-entry to the scene needed to be gentle. It was more about the spirit than the letter of the law.
After consulting Google calendars, my husband, my housemate, and I set a date: the Sunday before Labor Day, September 4.
When the day of the party came, I was not yell-talking over The Black Keys while someone made a tinfoil hat for the cat. I was not walking across a sticky kitchen floor wearing an appropriated costume of Things I Hoarded in My Studio for This Express Purpose. At 11:30 PM on September 4, I sat on the couch watching X-Files, eating cookie bars, and sipping on a High Life. Sipping.
Scott left for bed hours earlier and housemate Darby and I watched Overboard before she downed a Sudafed and hit the hay. They were both sick with the damn cold everyone seems to have.
I like to think any virile 21-year-old would have soldiered on, but that’s probably not true. As the only housemate left standing, even 21-year-old Cat would have called off the deal. What the superstitious part of my mind thinks is, regretfully, that this party bummer is the nail in the coffin of our collective party animal. From now on, this house is bound only for family BBQs and movie nights that are over by 10.
But maybe not — we’ll try this again: Festivus is only six months away.