Let's think back to, oh, roundabout the G.W. Bush Administration when we last had a social life. What happened? Well, while putting together my calendar last week, I realized I was in deep. I had signed myself up for a “get together” every single night of the week. I panicked. I cursed myself. I cooked up ways to back out! Surely I HAD to have at least one night to “relax” after work! I haven’t gone out this much in years! How would I survive?
But I went. Dinners! Drinks! Laughs! Tears! Catching up! I got out of my ponytail, put down my laptop and lost sleep in the name of socialization. To be honest, it was kind of a revelation for me. Why? Let’s go back in time to a bygone era of regrettable fashion choices, embarrassing drunken exploits and free-range dating. (*Picture me doing that Wayne’s World time travel thing…*)
Throwback. Dreamboat Pants watched as this pic was taken. He watched. That belt. Oh, kill me now. Why?!
Remember when you were 18, 21, 25… and you basically forgot what your living room even looked like? There was always a party to go to, a bar to chill in or a supa-fine “hottie” to chase around? Even the most introverted introverts still went out a lot in this phase. Fast-forward a few years. Hey you, in the sweatpants. Remember spending a Wednesday night in pants with a zipper? Barely? Okay, how about the days when you willingly left your house after 8PM? Struggling there, too? ‘Member when there was no Netflix? No Facebook? No YouTube. What did we DO? Let me refresh your memory…
When we went out, our purses contained disposable cameras and our Nokia. (We waited weeks to see if our eyes were open in our primitive selfies. The humanity!)
When we went out, we had giant cases in our cars containing every CD we owned. And we made mixes for EVERY possible occasion. (And when someone jacked our cars and we lost them, [and a cup-holder full of change for the Turnpike] it felt like someone stole our very souls. Damn.)
So much bootcut. So much brown. Delia's, of course.
When we went out, we wore boot-cut/bell-bottomed jeans with frayed hems that got wet and salt-stained in the winters when we trekked across campus or the mall parking lot or the bar crawl. And we wore a lot of brown. Why? Why did we wear that much brown?
When we went out, we had that one song that was OUR song, and when it came on, all our friends would be like, “OHHHHHH!!!” and point at us and dance and grab our raised up hands high in the air. There was fist pumping. I’m not condoning it; I’m just admitting it.
When we went out, we had a signature drink. And if we saw it or smelled it today we would immediately ralph. Stop. (Aside: Never chase Jagermeister with Sunny Delight, guys. I care about you. Don’t.)
When we went out, we drove embarrassing cars. But hey, at least we had cars. I had a 1994 red Dodge Intrepid with gold wheels. Was I a rapper? Was I a grandma? The Intrep would never tell…
When we went out, our lives were soap-operas. We created (and then drowned in) the drama that our own poor choices elicited. It was exhausting.
What in the fresh hell were we wearing?
When we went out, we dated losers. Our friends dated losers. It was pretty fun. Until it wasn’t. And that one that got away? Damn. That still hurts. Stiiiiiillllll hurrrrrrrtttttts.
But more than anything, when we went out… WE WENT OUT. Can someone please tell me: Why did this end? At what point did we lose that desire? Why do we suddenly love laying in our beds without make-up or pants binge-watching shows and scouring the interwebs for whatever junk our online “friends” are posting about?
So one day we all acquired low-key social anxiety disorder and gave up? When we DO make plans and people cancel, we’re overjoyed! What the….? So you like your sleep. Ok. You never have a baby sitter. Fine. You still have enough student loan bills to wallpaper your kitchen with. Understandable. But not all social interactions require you to give up sleep, money and time with your spawn. Admit it. That stuff’s not the problem. Your comfort-zone is.
It may be inarguable that the lessons we learned from our so-called glory days shaped our lives with the wisdom they helped us glean, but I gotta know: Is a loss of desire for (in-person) social interaction a side effect of age? Why does going out feel like such a chore these days? I was alarmed by my own desire to flake out on my favorite people just because my week got overwhelming. So I forced myself to keep every date. Did I miss my leggings? Did I stare at the clock all night pining for my bed?
No, actually. My cousin and I laughed loud enough to nearly be kicked out of Starbucks. A stranger anonymously paid the entire tab for my friend and I’s evening out because he overheard me talking about my upcoming birthday. My mom and I gossiped to beat the band, laughed at all our own jokes and closed down our favorite restaurant. Two more friends and I drank too much wine, Snapchatted each other from the next seat and stayed out waaaaay too late for a school night.
So I went out every night this week, spent a minor amount of money and “lost” my “time to relax” at home. My sleep suffered, true. But I gained hilarity and free stuff, support and encouragement! My ponytail and my phone don’t deliver that. Not even the bubblebath/Netflix documentary/Chablis continuum I LIVE for gives me all that! I forgot how much fun it was to go out. And I’d admittedly lost tabs on my own social persona.
I once read that all Victoria Beckham eats is freeze-dried shrimp which she keeps in her purse.... might be worth it.
Remember in your friend group how you were the fill-in-the-blank friend? Maybe you were the “cute” Beatle. Or you were the Ginger to your BFF’s Sporty. (I was Posh Spice. Obviously.) Well, when we neglect our friends, the ones who shaped us and helped us shape ourselves, we lose track of who we really are deep down, and how we became that. Did you forget that you were super smart compared to the general population? Super funny/deep/good at listening/hot. Your friends didn’t. Were you super good at taking disposable camera selfies with your BFF in your brown shirt and salt-stained boot-cut jeans while listening to your homemade CD mix? Yeah. You were pretty good at that. Guess what? You still are.
If including Ariel, Garth, the Spice Girls and Friends in this post didn't date me, I don't know what will.
Honesty Alert: I think being a “homebody” might kinda be secret code for being a little bit depressed. Are you afraid that your friends will see that you’ve put on ten pounds or don’t have an amazing job yet or might not be able to carry-on an awkwardness-free evening of conversation? Don’t be. Instead, MAKE THE PLANS. Then don’t flake. GO. Show up as yourself, whatever form that takes these days. Reminisce. Reveal. Relive. Reconnect.
Your leggings are never going to get cancer. Netflix is never going to get into a car wreck. All the things that keep you inside your house are really the very things keeping you inside yourself. It’s lonely in there and you’re forgetting who you are. There wasn’t one moment this week that I wished I was home. I loved and savored every moment. I overcame my self-consciousness and my routine. I remembered there are people I love (who love me!) on this crazy life journey with me. And I’m going to spend more time with them. What adventures does next week hold? Well, if you’re free, hit me up and we can find out together. In the meantime, I've got plans tonight. And tomorrow. -Kelly
