I'm pretty stubborn. So despite the fact that I have a bad knee and a full time job, I refuse to let go of my diminishing youth, only eluding me as I desperately seek it. My friends planned an explosive week of firsts and lasts, of burritos and beer gardens and rooftop lounges and museum excursions, of typical New York and typical college bonanzas; I resolved not only to be present at each of these events, but to actively partake in all revelry, so as not to miss out on the senior week I was supposed to have last year.
It's Day 4 of Senior Week. I'm bundled up on the couch watching Dancing with the Stars with a mug that reads "Crazy Cat Lady" and body chills. My knee throbs and lazy rolls of fat from the weekend's debauchery are peeking out from beneath my shirt. Inner beauty doesn't exist. And the youth is dead. Mission Senior Week: Epic Fail.
While I am incapacitated today, Friday was a night warranting superlative commendation. FCLC pretended to be real college, and so everyone bought their favorite games to the table--the dining table that had been pushed to the center of the room. One of my friends set up a confessional, which was intended for us to randomly go in and indulge in our favorite college memories, but ended up being a channel for Patrick, Bianca, and I to cry about our long lost youth and beauty and functioning body parts. I took my nighttime dose of fish oil while Patrick was talking about weekly reports for his boss.
After the authentic college party (which included dressing up as ninjas, because that's a universal collegiate obligation, and collectively straightening my hair, because that's a group activity), we moved on to HighBar, a rooftop lounge infused with delicious cosmopolitan zephyrs (that froze us half to death) and swanky cosmopolitan drinks (that no one could afford). After dancing and stealing candy from the bathroom, we decided to leave that pricey lounge filled only with wealthy heteros and free Starburst, and headed to a place where we'd feel more at home: Industry, a gay club 7 blocks away from Fordham.
On the way to the club, I saw Asif Mandvi, of the Daily Show. I walked up to him and introduced myself and said something apparently hilarious (it wasn't funny). I then joined my friends and went to Industry, where I was doted upon and courted, and almost forgot that this was the one place where no matter how straight my hair was or how diligently I did Butt Blasts at the YMCA, boys wouldn't ever look directly at me, but always to my left, where my attractive (male) friends stood. Then we (girls) all realized that we once again voluntarily and proactively put ourselves in that no-win situation that haunted us throughout our college careers. So we stopped dancing, stopped off for late night munchies (I got bananas because old people need potassium), and went to sleep--well, we tried.
It took every ounce of energy I had left (about 2.5) to cancel plans for tonight (Greenhouse lounge with my ladyfriends). Hopefully tonight I'll recover and then spend the rest of the week pretending I'm as young and cool and hip as my friends.
Or maybe I'll take a few more days to rest. I can't handle all the parties and celebrations and late nights. Kids these days, I just don't know how they do it.
