I can keenly remember the last time that I had fun.
The year was 2009 and I was fresh off the heels of my 25th birthday. I was enjoying my surprise party, surrounded by a ton of friends who were buying me drinks, and I got hammered. It was awesome. At least until my ex boyfriend/Dark Lord of the Underworld had the audacity to show up. And then it wasn’t awesome.
Because, as I mentioned before, I was hammered. Blackout hammered. So I threw a total bitch fit. And chicken. I threw chicken. And possibly a bar stool. Or so I was told.
Afterward, I was effectively drunk-lunatic shamed, put into bed, and told to never speak of that event again. Until now.
Now I know that doesn’t sound like much fun. Most of the night I was a steaming hot ass mess. But before that 5th consecutive shot of Cuervo and the subsequent interruption in brain functioning, it was a blast. It was all my favorite people, great food, great music, completely uninhibited dancing, crazy antics, noise, and side-splitting, tears down my face laughter. It was fun.
And up until that night, I had that level of fun almost every weekend. There were always friends, clubs, bars, and house parties. But somewhere around the time I turned 25, it all slowed to a halt. All of a sudden, fun was almost exclusively reserved for birthday parties, vacations, and special occasions. There was no regularity to it. No more just for the heck of it, no work tomorrow, air in my lungs, happy to be alive, Friday night fun.
I understand what happened. Life happened. Babies happened. Husbands happened. “Real” jobs and limited sick days happened. So the plethora of friends who used to be available for spontaneous weekly fun has dwindled down to a very, very short supply.
And aside from the blackout incident at my party scaring me square, there’s also plain ol’ maturity. I just don’t enjoy going out to the club/bar, my former stomping grounds of fun, anymore.
I knew that tide had officially turned during a trip to Atlanta, one year after my 25th birthday party debacle. The Bestie and I were in our hotel room about to get ready to head out to the hottest urban club below the Mason Dixon line. And then Forrest Gump came on TBS.
I realized then that I would rather stay in the room and recite “Forrest Gump” verbatim for the gajillionth time than get in the shower, shave my legs, flat-iron my hair, put on evening make up, put on heels, decide I don’t like those heels, put on different heels, walk to the car in those heels, drive 40 minutes, look for a parking spot for 30 minutes, walk to the club in heels, pay a $20 cover, pay $10 for a bottom shelf cran’ and vodka, and then stand in an overly crowded room, get hit on, sweat my hair out, and have my personal space violated (in heels!).
But I went anyway, and spent the entire night wishing I was in my hotel bed watching Forrest run. I’ve been at home watching Netflix ever since. And until recently, I’ve been OK with that. But I’m ready to have fun again.
Problem is, I don’t even know what fun looks like for an almost-30-year-old me. Is there a happy medium between the fun of dancing on top of the bar until 4am and the mild delight of streaming a weekend long “Saved By The Bell” marathon?