The way I see it, there are two ways to deal with this whole quarter-century thing.
I could sit here in my apartment, staring (horrified) at my gray hairs, examining those creepy little wrinkles that have begun to develop on my forehead, thinking about the fact that one beer at dinner basically did me in for the night. I could sift through my old Facebook photos, marveling at the tube tops I wore and the shots I took and…my god, did we really chase Bankers Club vodka with celery sticks? I thought that was an urban legend.
I could pine for the days when my best friends were one floor away, instead of across the globe, when I could wear my rings on any which finger I chose without fear someone might make a (completely incorrect!) assumption about my marital status.
Or I could spend the weekend partying with a bunch of college seniors in upstate New York.
Look, I know it might not be the healthiest approach. I know I’ve talked a lot of shit about Cornell in my day (in my defense: it’s extremely appealing to make fun of the only Ivy League school that’s worse than your own, plus my ex-boyfriend went there and I mean have you seen Ithaca?) I know sleeping on the floor of Dave’s brother’s room in some gross, all-boys Collegetown house is going to suck and and that our inevitable late night trip to something called “The Grease Truck” is probably a bad idea and that I could barely get down something called a birthday cake shot last weekend.
But it’s just one night. And those tube tops are way too cute to retire already.