I’ve never been a partier. Not in high school as classmates went from exploring their rebellious sides under the football stadium bleachers to the post-game fête where lushes-in-training engaged in salacious behavior; not in college as my floormates staggered home as the sun was rising and tried to convince me I missed out on the party of the year; and not as an adult where I would much rather enjoy a leisurely dinner out in Paris than spend hours in someone’s cramped apartment-party picking out bacon bits from a greasy quiche, recounting my life story to inebriated strangers and feeling dehydrated from a lack of non-alcoholic beverages. (Somehow water never makes it onto the menu).
I’m happiest when I’m in bed by 11pm on a Friday night after having spent a relaxing evening exploring, eating, and laughing with an intimate group of friends or even, after going to the movies alone and walking home, feeling the movement of the city with each step.
I still think fondly of those mornings in college where I would awake with microwave popcorn bits coiled in my hair after having fallen asleep to a movie. It could be the way I was raised or it could be because romantic…
