We All Do; Do You Whoo?

Confession:  I have been whoo-ing.  Yes, whoo-ing.

You know.  We all did it in college.  Newly developed alcohol tolerance and summer camp antics, mixed with the stupidity of young adulthood.  It happens.  You whoo.

Remember the booze, giggling, heels, and self loathing in the morning hours?  The new faces, electricity water spent on bar tabs, the sad photos and the raging cigarette headaches?  (I know, they kill people.  But when I whoo, it's something I do.)

Since graduating from college, I have turned my nose up to the whoo.  The scene is just too scene-y.  It's so contrived; spending way too much money and effort in earnest for attention.  I mean, really.  Aren't all clubs just full of overdressed people; looking over their shoulders at who else might be there?  I get tired.  First of all, I hate getting ready.  I have about a 15 minute window of focus to direct toward preening.  I hate choosing clothing.  I hate wearing heels.  I hate club music.  I hate low lighting.  I hate fruity drinks.  I hate hangovers. and I hate the coordinating.  I WILL DRIVE.  I AM SOBER AND TIRED.  GET IN THE CAR.  DONT YELL OUT MY WINDOW. NO, I AM NOT TAKING YOU THROUGH TACO BELL.

Well friends, I find myself as a hypocrite, and last month was the Month of Whoo.

First of all, I have had a lot of house guests recently.  According to my knowledge of hostess manners that I acquired from Sunday cartoons and 90s TV shows, the polite thing to do when entertaining is to do as your guests like to do.  They all wanted to whoo, so I did too.

..... and then it was my birthday.  Now, mind you, I'm not a huge birthday fanatic.  Growing up, one was not encouraged or even allowed any kind of sense of entitlement surrounding this anniversary.  According to my father, all I ever did on my birthday was pee my pants and cry.  Any request for lenience of any kind in relation to a "but it's my biiiiiiiiiiirthday" whine was quickly nipped, and never uttered again.  In my house, birthdays are not earned.  You don't accomplish anything just by existing for another set number of days.  So as a result, you will never catch me in any sort of sparkly head adornment or sash, screeching at my friends to make that day a categorical priority over everything else they may have going on in their lives.

But this year, I whoo-ed.  I had previously said that I just wanted to go to the movies, but upon further thought decided that a nice casual beer somewhere would be just as acceptable.  Cut to my girlfriend, telling me that she just got us on the list to some glitzy Hollywood nightclub.  I had to draw the line.  But still:

 .... and then my recent bestie Ashley had a bunch of visitors in town to play.  I like new friends so I shoehorned into the action and they were here to whoo.  Well, we had to accommodate them, as well, right?  So the whoo continued:

...and then, to really drive the Month of Ridiculousness home, I booked a last minute flight to Vegas to meet TL and her crew for one night of whoo.  I hadn't seen her in a while and we need quality time, so I went and I whoo-ed. 

 

Listen.  I'm not saying I didn't have fun.  I'm not saying I don't have some really delightful (albiet fuzzy) memories to giggle about later.  I'm not saying I'm ever going to stop thinking young and chasing joy like mad.  I'm definitely not saying this blog wont benefit from this step out of character and reasonable thinking.  Oh trust me, tons of blog fodder for y'all to look forward to.  

I'm just saying I'm still tired.  Debauchery just isn't for me.  Sometimes I act like it's so fun to be bad, rebellious and disregarding.  I like the element of surprise and shocking people just as they think they have me figured out.  So, I overcompensate and behave, well, childishly.  Think I have authority issues?  Fortunately, I came out of the cloud relatively unscathed, but definitely unfulfilled.  Lessons I keep learning.  Guess what?  26 year olds still act like 6 year olds.  Betcha didnt know!

Seek real interaction, my friend.  No need to spenf your life over-sauced and understimulated.   Love Love Love.