I celebrated my 23rd just two months ago. Not so bad, right? Wrong. For my birthday this year, I wanted nothing more than to enjoy a day off from work sleeping in, then to go out to eat with my boyfriend at a fancy restaurant. He took me to dinner at Mario’s, where I had the most delicious tasting ravioli of my life. He even bought me cheesecake for desert. We went home to share our cheesecake, and a bottle of wine, where we found ourselves on the couch watching a Sex and the City marathon. 10 p.m. rolled around and I was already falling asleep, nowhere near in the mood to hit the bars and clubs to celebrate my day as I’d done for the past two birthdays.
Though I got some strange looks and a few rude comments from my friends, I enjoyed this birthday the more than previous years. I ate incredible food, spent time with those closest to me, and the best part was, I woke up the next morning hang over free, and able to remember everything that happened the day before.
My birthday isn’t the only occasion from this year that’s made me realize that I’m getting f-ing old. Last night Andrew and I went to the bars to visit with one of his college roommates who is in town for the next two weeks. Since we live closest to the local bar scene, we were the first in our group to arrive.
As soon as we entered, we were hit in the face by loud music and a sea of people wearing orange “Drinkfest 2013” t-shirts. It was 8:00. We both looked at each other and complained that it was too early for there to be this many people at a bar that early in the evening, and for it to be so loud in the bar.
Once the crowds, loud music, and drunk people making a horrible attempt at dancing with one another became too much for us, we went across the street to a new, much quieter bar. First, we complained that the drink specials were $1.50 more than the previous bar.
Next thing I know, a bachelorette party runs in, asking several of our friends to sign the Bride-to-be’s inflatable penis. We cracked a few jokes about that and then went back to talking. “What’s my age again?” comes on over the speakers, followed by loud cheers and screams from the Bride and her friends. Enter the “woo girls“.
Andrew and I glanced at each other, immediately annoyed at how we both managed to make the How I Met Your Mother connection in less than 30 seconds.
Some of the other things from last night that made me realize we’re getting f-ing old:
- I asked a friend’s wife to show us pictures of their baby
- I asked if the same friends would be bringing their baby to a party we’ll be at next weekend so that we could finally meet her.
- Andrew didn’t even blink when several guys hit on me at the bar.
- Underaged kids, I mean seriously underaged somehow made it into the bar with their fake ID’s and took over our beer pong game. (Was it really 5 years ago that I had a fake ID and giggled with my friends over how we made it past the bouncers?)
- Laughing with another friend over the drink choices of a 17-year-old. You’re a guy, and you’re seriously walking around having people try your really “yummy, green fruity drink?”
- Talking babies, weddings and houses with friends
- Encouraging a sorority sister to go out and have fun, because I was actually out doing the same thing for once
- Leaving the bar by midnight to go home and go to bed.
I’m sitting here, typing this at 3 p.m. on a Sunday, with the worst hangover in the world, not even sure if this post is appropriate to share with the world, or even if it’s all that relevant to anyone but me. However, college Mily is looking at me, shaking their heads at how I can be so old, at so young.
Hey, on the bright side, I won the only game of darts that Andrew and I played last night. That’s something that college Allie was never able to accomplish. Maybe being old isn’t so bad?