We’re gonna party like … we’re really old
Glenwood Springs, CO Colorado
“I don’t even want to know,” I groaned out loud when I opened my eyes in bed on a recent weekend morning. “I am so dreading this.”
“Be a brave little girl and just go find out,” husband-head mumbled, still half asleep. “We’ll deal with it one way or the other.”
I dragged my butt out of bed and prepared to go downstairs. The night before, we’d had, let’s say, a rather impromptu party with some friends that started in the house and moved its way to husband-head’s fun house/garage outside in the back.
The drinks were flowing, the music was blaring, the dogs were barking.
My somewhat fuzzy head made its way downstairs with the dogs and to my surprise, the living room didn’t look bad at all.
As I turned the corner into the kitchen, it too looked pretty good.
“The garage,” I told the pets. “The wreckage is probably all in the garage.”
I threw on a coat and we all marched toward the scene of the crime.
As I threw open the door, I mentally prepared myself and I was aghast at what I saw.
The bar was clean and wiped down, the garbage was full, but neatly tied up and ready to go and there was no evidence of a party at all save one or two empty beer cans.
“HONEY!” I screamed to husband-head when I came back in the house. “Did we throw a really crappy party last night or what? Everything is all clean and picked up. What’s up with that?”
Husband-head and his headache did not answer.
A little while later, my best friend Marianne called from the West Coast.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I confessed. “We had a party last night and …”
“Of course I believe it!” Marianne interrupted. “I’ve been to many of your parties over the years! I don’t remember all of them, but I know we had a whopping good time.”
“No,” I insisted. “When I woke up this morning to survey the damage, there wasn’t any. The house looked as if we’d never HAD a party! The only telltale sign was that the garbage can was full.”
Marianne sat in silent disbelief.
“You mean there were no burn holes in the furniture?” she said in awe. “No vomit? No empty bottles or beer cans strewn all over the floor?”
“There wasn’t even anyone passed out on the couch,” I added.
Marianne started to laugh.
“Dude, what kind of party did you throw?” she asked. “Did you sit around and play Tiddly-Winks or what?”
After we hung up, I started to think about it and decided that the clean and organized state of the house might have had something to do with the type of people we had over.
In the old days, we would have parties and invite what we fondly call our “prison friends” ” the kind that are really fun, but don’t pay their taxes, have been to jail at least once and feel the need to drink every last drop of booze in the house before they’ll finally go home.
Nowadays, our friends tend to be people who are actually upstanding and functioning members of society who hold down jobs and are registered to vote.
At parties with these friends, there is usually food involved so that no one is drinking on an empty stomach. The guests also tend to bring a nice Merlot instead of a bottle of Everclear. If people do over imbibe a bit, there’s a designated driver to get everyone home safely.
And no matter how much they drink, the guests don’t find it necessary to get naked in the hot tub with another couple.
Best of all, they leave before the sun comes up.
“Wow, giving parties in our 40s is a helluva lot different than giving parties in our 20s,” I said to husband-head later.
The following weekend, we were invited to go out to dinner with some friends. It struck me that this experience, too, was different than in years past.
First of all, we sat at a table instead of the bar. Everyone only had one, maybe two, cocktails at the most and nobody felt it necessary to scream “Mazel Tov!” and hurl their drinks at the wall when they were done.
Nor did we “dine and ditch” after the meal.
“We may be getting older, but I think we’re a lot nicer to ourselves,” I mused to husband-head.
He nodded in agreement and headed off to bed because it was almost 9 p.m.
Heidi Rice is a reporter for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Visit her website at http://www.heidirice.com.
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