Minor League

I've been told that a lot of professional athletes remember their first game of t-ball or go on the gymnastics mats; a lot of actors remember their first audition and a lot of alcoholics remember their first drink. 

Likewise, I can pinpoint the exact moment I realized college and beyond was going to be one big bar story for me. I'd like you to go back in time with me to a period when Lil John was household entity and the Jonas Brothers hadn't yet gone through puberty: Summer, 2006. 

I had just graduated from high school and was at "Senior Week," a week of seaside debauchery generally funded by everyone's parents. If you haven't experienced senior week (because it truly is an experience), think spring break in Cancun in a shadier locale with more underaged drinking and infinitely more awkwardness. Needless to say, I've been to "Senior Week" four times, finally cutting myself off this year after realizing any relations with underaged seniors may have passed the realm of creepy and starting lingering in potentially illegal territory. 

Rewind to my only legitimate senior week: sometime between graduation and this week at the beach, I escaped from the overhang of a plethora of AP classes and bad hair, learned to drink and turned into a normal human being. Most of the week was spent avoiding boys who hadn't spoken to me during high school who suddenly wanted to sleep with me. It was like a late 90's teen movie with less snappy dialogue and a way grosser set.

The highlight had to one night when I was informed this guy Greg was interested in me. No Greg was going to be a senior in college. Now that I am nearly Greg's age, I can fully grasp the sketchiness of the situation; at the time, I was supremely flattered.

Nothing says romance to a naive 17 year old girl from Catholic school quite like beer pong and promises of 'just cuddling,' so one thing led to another and all of a sudden, I was sleeping over. Being unaware that 'just cuddling' was code for a minimum of heavy petting, I squirmed around, trying to get as far a possible from Greg in a twin size bed (apparently, an impossible feat). Far from sober, my squirming was hardly graceful and the next thing I knew, I was tangling in the long curtain with the rod falling on my head. 

Convinced I had a concussion and any additional time in that bed would result in unwanted contact with a penis, I locked myself in the bathroom. When I finally decided drunken Greg had hopefully passed out, I found that the super cheap condo rental was living up to its value - the door was stuck. Absolutely jammed in the door frame. 

Clearly, the logical alternative was to plan an escape. Out the bathroom window. As there was only a tiny window above the toilet, I'm still not sure how I managed it, but I'm sure it was full of grace and charm. 

By this point, it was 7 am and I commenced my walk home, a whopping 40 blocks (but everyone knows beach blocks aren't REAL city blocks; however, this was still no mean feat); my hair was in disarray from the night before, my makeup was smeared, I'm pretty sure I had a notable hickey and I was wearing a mini skirt and tube top. Lovely.

To add some adventure, school was still in session in this quiet, sea side town. While dressed like an Eastern European hooker, I had to wait to cross the street while approximately 20 parents dropped their kindergarten aged children off at the bus stop and watched them onto the bus. 

Upon making it home, I swore off drinking, men and tube tops forever. Oh, and the next week, Greg rejected my friend request on facebook. 

My swearing off lasted approximately a few days, the tale evolved into some kind of legend and I realized things were going to get really interesting....

ps: One of my many New Years Resolutions is to keep this updated.