Rum Tum is The New Beer Belly

When I lived in London during my very early twenties, I went clubbing a lot. No, a whole lot. No, like “I chose this program because the grades didn’t transfer so it doesn’t matter if I can’t even remember what classes I’m registered for because no one will ever, ever see these grades, so I can go out a lot” a lot. [And thank you very much, Mr. LSAC for proving me so very, very wrong. Oh, god, how completely wrong!]

Wednesday s was the Velvet Room, Thursday s usually some DnB. On Friday, the club gods rested and on Saturday was whichever superclub had the best guest djs. Sunday morning was the afterparty and Sunday afternoon was for sitting at my kitchen table with my roommate, reading the paper and sleeping.

A year, I’m in France on a train. And I remember distinctly a girl sat opposite me and dismissed my suggestions of what to do that weekend with a feeble waive of her hand.

“I’m too old for that stuff.”

I disliked her immediately. Too old? You’re twenty-five years old, for chrisakes! What the hell you mean too old? For dancing? And rum and cokes? You’re never too old for these things, right? RIGHT?!

But now, at 24 for the third year in a row (cough), I’m starting to understand.

Thursday night was a going-away party for T.F.’s coworker. Despite the fact that I was exhausted on Friday (now I remember why I don’t go to bar review), we had dinner and mucho vino with one of T.F.’s clients. Saturday was T.F.’s company picnic, which involved not only the alcohol (oh-so-subtly chugged out of water bottles), but the sun and the cheering screaming for our team.

Present at the picnic was, of course, That Girl, who I saw sitting in her folding chair and nonchalantly slip sideways onto the ground. She could not stand up and still demanded more drinks. After every attempt to physically force her into a cab failed, we left her sitting under a tree, flipping us off as she screamed expletives, and told her to call us when she wanted us to get her.

That, of course, didn’t happen. Something about the police? And walking home from the park? There was possibly a mugging, or at least a request for sexual favors from strangers. And finally a phone call and a demand to speak to “Katie” and chiding us for being so uncool that we could not even produce a “Katie” for her, after all she’s done for us.

T.F. is passed out before Saturday Night Live and the next day we’re at a World Cup party for more drinking.

To say I feel bloated and pimply today would be to put it nicely. How in the WORLD was I able to do this every single week? I was never the type to get so blasted I was That Girl- I’m pretty good at knowing when to say when. But now? Even getting to when takes a lot of recovery.

I don’t know what my point is. Maybe I’m starting to question whether I am at that certain age when I can waive my hand and say “oh no, I’m too old for that,” without irony. And without twenty-three years olds hating me for showing them their future.