Over the weekend, I celebrated my birthday in the usual way with numerous cakes and alcoholic beverages, and perhaps an obnoxiously long Snapchat Story. An extended happy hour on Thursday with coworkers I actually like kicked off the festivities, while the main dinner/bar hopping event occurred Friday evening. Sushi and sake bombs seemed like a solid start, until those things unsuspectingly returned a couple hours later in the night. I can hold my liquor, but overly sweet mystery jolly rancher looking shots back to back did not agree with the aforementioned delicious dinner. I’m talking bright green vomit all over the toilet seat, a bit on the floor/my boot, and even a touch on the bathroom stall door, although don’t ask me how. After getting past the thoughts of “Pull your hair back more!” and “How is there this much everywhere?!” it dawned on me that the day after turning 27 years old, I was mid puke and rally.
The time honored tradition of up-chucking the contents of your stomach in order to refill the tank with more alcohol is one that has been utilized for a variety of reasons always with the same end goal: keep the party going.
When you’ve committed to a night out, you need to find a way to persevere.
Sometimes you plan it. Sometimes it takes you by surprise, making you question all that came before. And sometimes it’s the thing you didn’t know you needed that becomes the unsung hero of your Friday night. Like a call to action reminding you that you are too awesome to quit. Because you’re a winner.
Perhaps that’s a little too much praise for something so disgusting and thoroughly unattractive, but you’re lying if you tell me you’ve never opted for the power play that can salvage your good time. No one likes to call the dinosaurs, but we’ve all done it.
Of course, this was nowhere near my first experience with the lifesaving act (shout out to you flabongo of jungle juice July 4th, 2014), but when you cross the threshold of what is probably the technical end of your mid-twenties, it’s possible that some re-evaluation is in order. Enter the stereotypical thought of “Am I getting too old for this?”
At what age is it no longer acceptable to puke and rally? Is there ever really a time when you’re past the point of using college strategies to continue drinking yourself under the table? Am I ever going to take vomit as a sign that it’s time to throw in the towel, get an Uber, and go home to pass out?
And does giving up this trick signify that you’ve actually reached adulthood and are a responsible member of society? Or are there legit adults out there still sneaking away after one too many at happy hour? Surely, I’ll give up the habit once I’ve settled down with my non-existent future husband and kids, but that looks to be in the distance considering my current single status. Right now cleaning up after myself is enough, and I can’t imagine that baby puke and hangovers go well together.
But finally, and most importantly, do I want to live that kind of life? The kind of life where an evening ends early when there is a tab still open with two more stops to make. Maybe my feelings will change by the time 28 rolls around, but the girl rinsing her mouth out with sink water, popping in a couple mints, and re-emerging for more shots and beer would wholeheartedly say no. .
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