Last night's festivities reminded me of an essay I wrote for a college English class about going to the bar for the first time in college, right after turning 21. Following is an excerpt: "Fast-forward to last Saturday, my first trip to Sal’s Bar. Quivering from cold and excitement as I stepped in the door, I extracted my keychain from my things and pulled out my license to show the bouncer. Five seconds later, he nodded and gave the license back. I had secretly expected confetti and congratulatory cheering, but apparently I wasn’t getting it. Shrugging off my disappointment, I followed my friends to a table. According to “bar” time, we were early; it was only about 11:30. Waiting for the dance floor to open and for things to pick up, I actually began to doze with my face resting on the jacket crumpled in my forearms. The two vodka/orange juices – one of which was mostly orange juice – and the shot of rum that I’d downed earlier only served to deepen my fatigue. My drinking adventures were not off to a great start.
Around midnight, people began to stream in the door, the DJ rolled up the partition closing off the dance floor, and a carnival-like chaos began. As the last little bit of alcohol sloshed its way through my liver and left me sober on the dance floor, I began to notice several flaws in the party atmosphere. I shouted to my friend Ashley, “It’s kinda’ loud right here.”
“What? Can’t hear you!” she hollered back.
Dancing closer, I yelled with dangerous proximity to her ear, “I’m going to take a break. These heels are killing me.” Smiling reassuringly over my shoulder at her concerned countenance, I wedged my way through packed bodies. My excuse had not been a lie; the patent leather pumps I’d donned in honor of my first trip to the bar were extending my arches past any reasonable angle. It was, in fact, an accident that the shoes were still in my closet. I’d meant to throw them out months ago owing to their complete lack of function. Anxious to make my bar debut a success, I had dug them out along with a baby-doll tank that was cut too low, a short-sleeved, black cardigan – which would have elicited winter weather dress-code warnings from my father – and faded blue jeans.
Despite acting as camouflage in the crowd at the bar, the outfit let in a distinct draft at the neckline and was cutting off the circulation to not one but several body parts. Now, like my Aunt Vicki at a wedding dance, I seated myself on the sidelines, took off my heels, and began to rub my feet while inwardly admonishing the DJ for playing the music too loud. Gazing at the scene in front of me, I spotted a small group of middle-aged women and men – the college students call them “townies” – standing aloof around a table in the corner. They made intermittent attempts at conversation, which seemed ridiculous with the speakers blaring. Wondering at their desire to pass a perfectly good Saturday evening with a group of rowdy pre-adults, I looked past them to the dance floor.
My freshman RA, despite sobriety, was twisting her arms back and forth in unison to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” while sidestepping with enthusiasm. A tall guy was spinning a helpless young woman in eternal circles and crushing her right hand in a confident ballroom grip turned deadly with distorted senses. Her grimaces were followed by relief when he wrapped her arm around his neck for a dip. As two girls re-enacted some MTV rap music video footage close to the DJ’s booth and the music thudded aggressively, a memory tapped at my brain: the Christmas party in 11th grade that my friends and I threw. I showed up in a lumpy, pink sweater and white turtleneck toting a Pyrex® neoprene carrying case to safeguard my family-sized green bean casserole. I had never heard the end of that and had endured the nickname “Mother Marie” until I graduated. Right about now I would have traded my license for that sweater.
Moving my gaze in an attempt to recapture the party spirit, I caught sight of a group of guys swaying slightly as they greeted one another after an apparent extended absence. Red, white and grey Johnnie sweatshirts were the order of the night, and I took jealous notice as the draft from the door blew down my shirt once again. They spoke over the raucous with an ease borne of practice, and I admired their triumph over the previously-discussed dialogue dilemma. Suddenly, realizing how creepy I must look staring at everyone with my back propped against the wall and my shoes thrown aside, I hopped down from my perch on the bar stool. Struggling back into my pumps, I weaved a path to the bathroom where there was sure to be company for a single girl. As I arranged my hair with the aid of the standard streaky restroom mirror, I spotted a travel companion from study abroad. She saw me at the same moment and stepped toward me for a surprised hello and a hug. Just then a girl calmly walked directly back out of the stall she had entered and was kind enough to mention that further usage would be impeded by vomit.
Making a face at Crystal, I said that I hoped I’d see her around and promptly exited the bathroom. That was it. I was tired, sore, no longer drunk and out of patience. Squishing through hands holding drinks, Johnnies hitting on Bennies who were hitting on other Johnnies, shouting faces and friends having the time of their lives together, I stalked down my friend and asked her if I could take her up on her offer to leave whenever I was tired, because that happened to be now. Serendipitously, she had just hung up the phone with a crush who she’d persuaded to come pick us up. Relieved to be finally headed home, I shrugged on my jacket, walked out of the bar and climbed speechlessly into the backseat of a waiting, warm car."
Maybe I'm just 80 at heart, but the noise and the rowdy kids is all too much! Our St. Patrick's Day companions were certainly nice, and I mean no disrespect, but I think it will be a long time before I set foot in another bar.
