I'm Too Old For This Shit

In my group of friends, you can't just have a party. If you throw a party, it has to have a theme. And my friends are the best at theme parties. So, from the great minds that brought us the Shotgun Wedding/Vegas party, the Pun Party, and the Under the Sea Party, came last night's Rumspringa Party.

Rumspringa: The time in every Amish teen's life when he or she is allowed to set out into the world and try it our way. Often times, they go batshit and party like they've never partied before, because well, they haven't.

For this party, everyone was required to dress as a slutty Amish person. A seemingly difficult task I realize, but we are Honors students! This morning, I had a Philadelphia Film Festival Volunteer Training Session and had to be a work at 8:30 AM. Therefore, I decided to go easy at the Rumspringa Party and purchased a 40 in lieu of my usual Vodka and "Enter Mixer Here."

A "40": A 40 ounce bottle of malt liquor beer, the drinking of which will get you suitably drunk but not knock you on your ass. Taste horrible at first, but improves as you drink. Remarkably inexpensive. Common in ghettos including but not limited to North Philadelphia.

So I got my 40 from my local shady convenience store and headed to Rumspringa, where I had such a roaring good time that I would have surely traded my bonnet for a trendy knit cap were I actually Amish. When I got home, I went to bed, watched an episode of Primeval, and promptly passed out. Before, may I add, setting an alarm for the morning.

Hint for Everyone, Everywhere, Ever: Always set your alarms before you go out for the night!

It was only by the grace of God and a couple late relatives looking down on me that I naturally woke from my drunken coma at 7 AM to find my computer still safely perched on the edge of my bed. I managed to ready myself, fix a lovely Hangover Breakfast of Cheetos, Lays, and Diet Coke, and get my ass to work.

As I got dressed, I thought of the second party I was meant to attend tonight. The mere thought of drinking again -- especially drinking as much as I was expected to drink -- made me want to crawl back into bed. I only had a 40! I used to drink that and be able to get up in the morning and do jumping-jacks. When did I get so old?! I realize this is supposed to happen, but I didn't think my body would start hating me until I was at least 30. Perhaps it's a strange affect of Global Warming? Perhaps in anticipation for the end of the world, my body is trying to do all its aging before 2012? Whatever the reason, I'm not 18 anymore!

When I was a freshman, we used to like to do "three-petes," going out on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. Back then, the prospect of a three-pete made me want to get out my party shirts and hit the town. Now the idea of doing a three-pete makes me want to curl up under the covers with a romance novel and a mug of Sleepytime Herbal Tea (I have a busy day tomorrow!) My friends and I have had many a conversation about our decreasing tolerance for college party life. By this time next year, I expect that our three-petes will consist of a daytime trip to Atlantic City, a Friday night movie at the Home, and the 4PM buffet special at the Lobster Shanty. Holla!

Slashed

Over the summer, I had one of my first real 'pain in the ass' grown up days. I returned to Philly after a weekend at home and scooted off to work in my Loser Cruiser-Soccer Mom Van named Bertha. About half way down the block, I noticed a strange sound coming from the car. When I pulled over to inspect, I saw that my tire was flat. But not only was it flat, it had been slashed!

I tried to think of the person with whom I clearly had some beef, but came up empty. I have never slighted someone so badly that they would slash my tires. Now, I understand vandalism for the sake of profit (or I suppose that's theft?) or vandalism for the sake of expression like graffiti. But slashing my tire got me a ginormous pain and some kid ten seconds of tire air in his or her face. So thanks to what I presume was a troubled teen without cable, I had to call AAA. The AAA guy unscrewed the doughnut from my 1998 van and found that it was rusty as shit and not completely filling with air. So after he left, I called out of work and looked up my nearest Pep Boys. On the phone, I asked the Pep Boy for two tires -- one to put on my car and one to put in my car as a spare.

A note to all my fellow adulthood newbs out there: Apparently this is crazy woman talk because no one gets a tire and throws it in the back. They take up a lot of space, which would be really inconvenient since I only have an entire Soccer Mom van with two extra rows of seats.

After arguing a little with the Pep Boy and hearing him shake his head and roll his eyes, I let it go and drove my three tires and one doughnut over to Broad and Other Street. When I got there, the guy I'd talked with, who clearly found my naivete darling, flirted with me a little. But he left fairly quickly because (1) he was working (2) I happen to be an expert in the ancient art of warding off men and (3) he'd just treated me like a moron, so there was zero effort on my part. Instead, I waited patiently in the customer area for my turn to pay $120 for a new tire.

Although I am grateful for my automotive support, if I never see AAA or Pep Boys again, I will die contented. Ahhh, life lessons....