Two weeks before New Years Eve, my home girl Kimberly sent me a text about the house party she was throwing.
“Make sure you bring a bottle and bring yo a$%, Shenequa! I know how you are,” she joked.
I promised her I would show up, even telling her about the gorgeous outfit I was going to wear, but at the same time I secretly I wished Sprint would cut my phone off like I hadn’t paid the bill so that couldn’t get the text to begin with.
You see, it’s no slight against Kim, it’s just I’m 27-years-old and I would much rather stay at home and watch reruns of “The Golden Girls” than go out to a party.
Welcome to the world of the party pooper.
I think I was 17 when I realized I was an old fart. It was my best friend, Sheena’s 18th birthday and our moms finally let us stay out late. Like most Janes who swore they were grown, we went to Times Square and ate at Red Lobster because we considered it fine dining.
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After rounds of heart-clogging Cheddar Bay Biscuits and oily shrimp scampi, we decided to go to the movies and see Brown Sugar. By 10 p.m., I let out my first yawn, and after dinner, I was barely keeping up.
“Shenequa, why do you look like you’re about to pass out? The night is young and so are we!” Sheena said.
“It’s getting late and I’m tired. I think I’ll head home,” I yawned.
You would’ve thought I told my girls I was voting Republican the way they looked at me. I was the recipient of neck rolls, a hair flip and I think Sheena was the first woman on record to give a side eye. The very first!
The next day in school I heard all about the cute Johns they met and how great the movie was.
“You should’ve stayed,” Sheena said.
“I know. I know,” I said.
Don’t get me wrong, I do go out occasionally and there’s photo albums on Facebook of me straddling stripper poles in drunken debauchery (judge me if you want)…Or the time I kissed some fat Italian guy in a club who said I had great legs (continue the judgment); so yes, I have had my own Hangover-esque moments. But those are so few and far between.
It’s always a struggle for me to want to go out, which is insane because at 27, that should be at the bottom of my totem pole of problems. I should look at going out as someone offering me a Trader Joe’s gift card. In my head, it should be an automatic go.
Society says if I’m going to have wild, reckless fun that leaves me with a pounding headache the next morning or my account in the negative, I should do it now! I’ve got three more years to f*%$ it up, yet I’d rather stay at home with a cup of green tea, reading the newest James Patterson novel.
I worry sometimes. Am I going to wake up at 42 and wish I did more? Later on in life, will I think I’ve missed out? Am I going to be the old aunt in the club still trying to see if I “still got it?”
A part of me wants to have stories to tell of crazy nights with Sheena and the rest of my dames. I want to look back on photos and say “We almost got arrested this night, remember? ” or “Shenequa, you drank so much. How are you even alive?” But the grandma in me (let’s call her Beatrice) waves her wrinkled hand and always wins the stay-home battle.
I guess my beef is a lack of balance. I sit on my couch so much, I feel like Beatrice is making me miss out on some really dope moments, but then again I don’t I have a strong desire to keep up with the Joneses all the time either. I can barely keep up with whatever season of The Kardashians is on now.
You know what? That’s it! I’m going to go out more and smell the roses, I’ll just make sure I’m back home by 8:00. Let’s not get too wild here!