Now that most of my friends are coupled – myself included – we’ve stopped groping, pashing-for-fun, stacks-on-fifteen-people-dry-humping-on-someone’s-bed-and-where-the-hell-did-this-whip-come-from at parties. I miss that. (Ok, there is some boob groping, but not as much as there used to be and it’s generally just with one group of friends who don’t have many house parties these days.) If anyone suggests something more exciting than alcohol, there’s a ten minute discussion about what we have coming up at work over the next two weeks before deciding that it just takes too long to recover these days, thankyouverymuch.
And next to the line of eskies is a line of prams. I don’t begrudge my friends having kids, but apparently kids don’t respect hangovers.
My single friends must find our parties terribly boring. Particularly when I say things like “terribly boring”.
There are upsides, of course.
The wine is better.
When we talk about politics, we actually know what we’re talking about.
And when we act like pretentious wankers discussing raw milk cheese, it’s because we are pretentious wankers.
Yeah, I’m not sure those second two are upsides.
Anyway, I was invited to a 21st on Saturday night. I’m just as surprised as you are that I know someone that young. And no, it wasn’t a relative. I was Whingey McWhingeypants over the weekend with another cold (reckon it’s because I work part-time, so I’m not getting daily exposure to other people’s germs), so I went along for two drinks and then called it a night. Hey, do I know how to party OR WHAT?!
The next afternoon, as The Birthday Girl, The Tall Lady, and I enjoyed Jen‘s baked treats (sadly, not a euphemism – see the start of this post), they filled me in on all the fun that young people have: being obnoxious to old people (ie, people my age), pissing off the neighbours, and pashing and groping each other for the hell of it. Damn them and their fun times.
I try to keep a child-like joy in my life. Others probably say I’m immature but they’re not the boss of me. Yes, yes, I know we have to grow up and blah blah blah. But most of being a grown up is just so damn boring.
So, dear friends in real life, next time there’s a house party, you’ve been warned.
For lulz, start a Tumblr blog and watch all the comments about middle aged men – like Benedict Cumberbatch (35) and Jon Hamm (41). But then they’re stuck with One Direction and Justin Beiber, so I believe I have the better half of the deal.
LOVE the name of your Tumblr! Ms .45, welcome to the News with Nipples.
Yes, it occurred to me on my way home from lunch last month that we had two reasonably long conversations about the price of inner west real estate AND retirement investment strategies. Both of which were interesting and relevant to me. It made me realise that I’m actually a grown up, when I don’t really feel like one (despite the trappings).
It’s ok, you’re allowed to have conversations like that at lunch.
Speaking of lunch, I have a lovely photo of you from Alex’s hen’s party. Will send it to you.
How do I become one of those friends?
And what cup size are you?
Short Machiatto type or full on cafe` latte?
Soy flat white with one.
Pethaps off topic but Ive just watched Network in full for the first time.
What it got me thinking was: are we infantslised by the media where political leaders take the role of parents and we are childern who may feel hard done by but have to trust that what is being done is in our interest in the long term, if we dont like it, suck it up.
A primal yet comfortable relationship where the alternative is unknown and fraught with danger.
I think the two work together – the MSM and the Government – to reduce everything to a soundbite, and the result is that we’re infantilised to the point of chucking tantrums.
A bunch of us, 35ish year olds had a HUGE house party in honour of a couple of Gemini birthdays a couple of weeks ago. We certainly did our best to “party like we used to” (once the kids were put to sleep upstairs). I think we did a pretty solid job of it
Excellent work! I’m 36 soon and plan to party like I’m a decade younger. No doubt the following day I’ll feel a decade older…
Of said party I stayed til the bitter end, or what I thought was the bitter end of cake flinging in the kitchen, abusive rounds of Mario Cart (so old skool), and dry humping. I left at 2.30am which I thought was respectable, but just revealed what a granny I am these days. But at least I can still bake scones with a hangover, I’m just too lazy to whip the cream.
What a waste of your delicious Guinness cake.
Speaking of Guinness cake…