How in the world did I get here?
Like a powerful leader addressing her nation, I stood poised and proud atop my friend Connor's fourth-hand Cadillac as frantic cops hurried after the throngs of underage drinkers. I surveyed the suburban parking lot pandemonium.
Not intimidated-yet surprisingly sober-I raised a giant bottle of vodka in the air.
\ANARCHY!"" I shouted over the chaos. ""AN-AR-CHY!""
I was 15.
Fifteen with no idea what anarchy meant. No idea what I clenched in my hand. No idea if I appeared foolish (yes) or awesome (no). But all I could think to myself was, ""How in gosh's name did I get here?""
When I was 15, events like this happened almost every weekend. A punky brunette, responsible redhead and me, a sheltered/reckless blonde, had teamed up with an unkempt crew of older, unreliable, skinny, anarchy-patched goons to take on Chicago's south suburbs.
And despite the unfortunate environment and lackluster Sid Vicious-wannabe dude friends, I look back on those years with ""The Trio"" so fondly now. Because now, I rarely get to ask myself, ""How did I get here?""
These days I drink a lot more, party more, have more opportunities and a more extensive social network. But these days, I also never find myself wondering that most thrilling question.
I've approached my friends about this phenomenon.
""Been there, done that,"" they say. ""We've tried everything there is to try and now we know what works and what doesn't.""
Well, maybe I'm just a late bloomer, but I don't believe I've tried everything. In such a complex city full of intriguing 20-somethings, trying everything is virtually impossible. But every time I try to recapture that high school inspiration, I inevitably revert to the same old parties and realize there's only a handful of socially acceptable ways to ""let loose"" in a college town: drinking, T.V. and, depending on your circle of friends, putting some type of weird drug inside of you.
But these restrictions wouldn't be so bad without their coinciding unwritten laws on how college kids should react to them. It's just that scarfing down Qdoba, suggestively dancing if space provides, and in some cases vomiting and initiating faux intellectual conversation, aren't so much liberating as they are formulaic. Sometimes I think ""letting go"" can be more restraining and threatening than advanced economics homework.
Gone are the teenage days when The Trio rode in the trunk of that Cadillac, wrote hilarious song lyrics or streaked through an icy field in February. Gone also is the option of carefree sobriety. In college, such words are polar opposites.
Don't get me wrong-I'd never advocate going dry or even cutting back those five bar nights a week to three. But I am saying that we're far too young and smart for rigid patterns of predictable unpredictability, whatever those patterns may be. We constantly complain about the monotony of school, but when it comes time to free ourselves for a few days, we're our own worst oppressors.
So do it drunk or do it sober, but please: have a brand new adventure for me.
At the very least, it'll be anarchy.
ewinter@wisc.edu.
