Cheese Glorious Cheese

Friday afternoon started like most of my Fridays, with drinks after class with classmates at Exchequer. What was different than other Fridays is that instead of going home and either resting (read napping) and then going out again, or just coming home and enjoying a quiet Friday night at home still feeling slightly buzzed from drinking beers at 4 in the afternoon … well this Friday instead, we went straight on to other bars (and I continued to drink, trading up beers for stoli and sodas).

Casey Moran’s. It made me feel quite old, being in a bar with all those early twenty-somethings, drunk and horny and on the prowl. But I spent my time at Casey Moran’s on the dance floor. I am not a dancer. I have no graceful movements. I am notorious clutzy and uncoordinated. For the most part I just sort of jump. CC and I for the whole time, and part of the time LM and PJ joined, danced with complete abandon. I felt like I was thirteen again and was jumping on the couches in Alison Gubser’s living room, and air guitaring to Brian Adams. It was the combination of the eighties music that they were playing, and that, in my pigtails, t-shirt and sneakers, I could care less what I looked like, surrounded by the overpainted and hormonal kids around us (most of which were macking down with determination all around the dance floor)

It was embracing the cheese and giving in to it.

I should add though that I am no longer twenty-three, so when most of my early twenties friends called it a night, I should have done the same. In stead, I went on to another bar with a smaller concentration of our group (two people to be exact) and drank more until after 4am.

I had a meeting with my grad projects advisor at noon at Ann Sather (good eggs benedict there). The first thing she said to me was “Are you just waking up?”

I painfully croaked, “Yes.”

I danced (and drank) like I was twenty-three but man o man, I woke up feeling every one of my thirty-three years of age.