There’s nothing like an exclusive party in Manhattan to make you feel cool. Likewise there’s nothing like a six story walk up to make you feel out-of-breath as well as out-of-shape.
This past weekend I was invited to a friend’s brother’s uncle’s neighbor’s housewarming party at a West Village penthouse. I went not only because I liked casually slipping it into conversation that I was going to a roof party, but also because I’m constantly trying to figure out the secret to going from a post-grad intern to a real employee who can afford to pay rent on an apartment. It’s a mind boggling mystery to me but I’m determined to solve it.
However, mingling with all these employed-and-insured people made me realize that I shouldn’t be so worried about finding a job. These people were only twenty-five and yet they had more complaints than my grandparents after they forget to take their diuretics. They’re overtired, they’re overworked, and they’re over having fun.
I’m used to college parties where the only people sitting down are the ones who started their night’s drinking too early and now must wait for someone to notice them and shove them into a public safety car. However at this party, people were fighting for the seats and anyone left standing was assumed to be a random neighbor who had mistakenly wandered up to the roof.
They sipped their drinks slowly and didn’t even run over to the bar as soon as their drink was almost empty. People spoke at appropriate volumes and no one got too drunk that they made a spectacle of themselves. Not even one person slipped on the spiral staircase of death that led up to the roof.
My friends and I found ourselves to be the life of the party, not because we were insanely entertaining, but more because we were the only ones that could still remember how how to down them like we were at college and how to converse about things other than bosses and 401ks.
I’ve been so caught up trying to find a job that I failed to pay attention to what growing up really looks like.
If this is what being employed/grown-up is all about, count me out.