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Well folks, I really don’t know how I got here. I’ve been wracking my brain all morning trying to come up with a potential genesis of my current predicament. Was it the transition from bartending the third trashiest establishment in Athens to a respectable part-time gig in the daylight? Was it the conversational shift from screaming in a bar at 1 a.m. to discussing grad school plans over wine and apps at 8 p.m.? Was it the new skin care routine?
I’m not sure that I will ever be able to pinpoint the exact time or event. All I’m certain of is that at some point — almost overnight — I got old. Not that self-righteous “grown-up” old that Becky The Alum tries to play up on all her social media. But that kind of old that reads “you cannot shoot four Kinky Pinks in an hour and live to tell the tale.”
This past weekend was my last sorority formal, and it would be a hideous lie to pretend that my date and I — who is one year into the post-grad life — were not drunk as skunks by 12:15 a.m. and woke up the next morning with hangovers that lasted well into Sunday. My poor performance this past Spring Break hinted that the end was near, but this was unheard of. It was both shameful and humbling.
One year ago today, I was literally ass out on a bar in six-inch heels pouring God knows what kind of concoction down the throats of unsuspecting patrons to the beat of everyone’s favorite 50 Cent jam “Go Shorty, It’s Your Birthday.” I’ve always been that girl who commits to the birthday week: roommate dinner, fam dinner, party the night-of, recover brunch. It was a carefully curated itinerary of glorious debauchery.
This morning, I woke up at the ripe old age of 22 and things could not be more different. I French pressed my coffee, caught up on last week’s episode of Touching Base, and responded to some Facebook birthday posts. The only birthday plan I have is a nice quiet dinner with my sister. I even used my birthday money to get a head start on my credit card bill.
The sad part is, I don’t hate it. There’s something peaceful about knowing I won’t wake up tomorrow, dry-heaving into the toilet and applying to law schools with a bad case of the shakes. I’m not implying that I’m hanging up my party hat forever, but moving into the land of structure and weak cocktails doesn’t exactly sound half bad..