Epic blah blah blah

Friday evening (no, not last Friday, the Friday before that) I practically ran up the stairs of the parking garage, leapt into the shitty Honda, backed out of my parking space, zoomed around the corner towards the garage exit, catching a whiff of that sweet, sweet freedom, when the car gave a shudder and died. I managed to coast out of the way of the lucky bastards with working vehicles who would actually make it home at a decent hour. So, the car was dead. Monk would pick me up nearly two hours after I’d first walked out of the office. We’d have to leave the car in the garage until Tuesday since we had a flight to catch in the morning. And that’s how we began our Thanksgiving Break.

My brother is now 21. We arrived Saturday evening, bitched about the weather (Indiana’s cold, when you’re coming from 75 degrees in Dallas), ate some kick-ass Thai food, and prepared ourselves for the keg party Brother and his roommates were throwing that night. The party was pretty tame, all things considered. The main lesson learned on this trip was this: I am old. As in, decrepit. As in, where’s my cane? And get off my lawn, you dirty hooligans.

Being a decade (or more!) older than everyone at a college party is a little awkward. We hadn’t realized everyone would assume we were students (but really, if you’re wayyy too old to be attending the university, why WOULD you be at a keg party? Loser). Monk and I were asked about our major so many times that eventually I gave in and became engaged in a discussion about my Political Science program and what Monk planned to do with a bachelor’s in Astrophysics.

Also, I had no idea what Beer Pong was before that Saturday night, even though it is apparently taking this country by storm. I’m still not impressed. Then again, I’m the dumbass that thought “e-mail” would never really catch on.

God, I’m old. Monk and I both caught ourselves telling stories that began with phrases suspiciously similar to “in MY day…” There was just a tiny stack of Things We Can Talk About, and this gigantic pile of Things No One is Interested In. To be fair, when I was in school (“In MY day…” Dammit!), my eyes would have glazed over from talk of car trouble, mortgages, the ol’ 9 to 5 too… Anything that had to do with the Real World- a concept that was non-existent at the time.

(And yes, I realize how judge-y and oh, I'm so beyooond all that, darling that sounded, but when you get old you don't have to watch what you say anymore.)

One party guest had decided she was my new best friend early in the evening. As my 18-year-old buddy gulped her keg beer and a rather strong rum and coke, she began telling me about her ex-boyfriend troubles and current issues with being single. There was also a boast of being pom squad captain in high school and a demonstration of how she could, in fact, shake her ass to some hip hop tunes (although the hip hop tunes were absent). Despite her alcohol-induced fog, she must have picked up on my, ahem, maturity at some point. She looked up at me with large, glassy eyes and asked my age. My answer so blew her mind that she literally took a shocked step back, presumably to avoid catching my Old Age cooties. To her credit, she did try to rescue the awkward moment with an uncertain mumble: “Oh, that’s... young...”

We outlasted many of the partiers, surprisingly. But at 4 a.m., Monk and I needed some rest, so we crammed ourselves into my brother's twin bed and waited another hour for the music to stop blasting through the house. My new best friend stumbled in and out of the room a couple of times, then my brother crashed around trying to get comfortable on his floor at 5:30 in the morning, and at 8 a.m. someone barged in looking for “Lisa.” Monk and I emerged the next day rumpled, smoky, and very excited to spend the next two nights in the Student Center's hotel.

The rest of the visit was terrific. Great food, lots of walking, good conversation... I’d go into more detail about how much it meant to me to be able to celebrate my brother’s 21st birthday with him, and how happy we were to spend quality time with him on his turf, instead of squeezing it in amongst family visits and parental snubs, but I’m afraid I’ll get misty-eyed and sentimental.

And really, it’s bad enough that I’m OLD without adding SAPPY to the picture. I’ll give a Thanksgiving recap later in the week; right now I have to figure out where I parked my dinosaur.

1 comment:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Everyone at work is younger than I am. Which would be fine if I didn't have the peon job while they basically had authority over me. One nurse absolutely did not believe me when I told her I was 30. Talk about a p'nixing: should I be flattered that I don't look like what 30 apparently looks like to young people, or crushed that I actually am THAT old.


8:22 AM  

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