Thanksgiving Eve, a twenty something’s excuse to drink way too much (as if we needed one). There is nothing better than a night full of old high school friends, flings, and frenemies, jam packed into the local watering hole. Every year, I drive down 95 South to drink with my two best friends and participate in a drunken déjà vu with my entire hometown. The night always begins with Chinese at the kitchen island, three bottles of white, a bottle of hair spray, and a few slurred words (let’s be honest, the slurred words are usually from me, I can barely hold my liquor anymore).
As we walk into a sea of high school heart throbs, nerds, and acquaintances, it’s like something out of a 90’s high school flick. The lights begin to dim, everyone moves in slow motion, our hair looks friggen fabulous, the music is on point and damn, do we look good. Oh no, that’s not right, is it? Reality Check people! We are a quarter century old, the music absolutely sucks, the lights are blinding, and we just walked into a smelly bar, full of even smellier people. The only thing for certain is our hair is on point, obviously.
Once you get past the bleakness of the girl’s stares, the drunken pick-up lines from the guys, and the harshness of the bar lighting, you find yourself fighting for the mediocre bartender’s attention. A round of Fireball shots are ordered, followed by a couple vodka soda’s (no one wants to blow their weekly workout on a Budweiser).
Conversations instantly begin as you become more aware of your surroundings and the liquor is officially coursing through your blood stream. “Oh. My. God. Look at Nicole. She’s really been packing it in lately. Damn!” “Is that Brett and Rachael together?” “Is that Kelly and Kim together?!” “Wait, who’s puking in the bathroom?” “Dear God. Look at Danielle’s outfit! She looks a complete skank. Who does she think she is? Miley Cyrus.” As if Facebook, Twitter and Instagram isn’t enough, everyone wants to be home on Thanksgiving Eve to see the train wreck live. And who doesn’t love a good seven year reunion (I’m so OLD!). The reality is, you are happy to see your friends and you are even happier to see your enemies publicly displaying their love for Double Cheeseburgers. I know it’s terrible but it’s true and if you don’t agree with me, you are lying to yourself and everyone else. So knock it off.
This year I am not making the 45 minute trek down 95 South and to be honest I’m devastated. Not because I can’t see how fat Nicole got or how well (sarcasm people) Danielle pulls off her Forever21 crop top because let’s be honest I’ll see ALL the pictures on Facebook. It’s because I can’t spend time with my two best friends. The older I get (ugh!) the more I look forward to hanging out with those crazy broads. I finally understand why every 50-year old women goes on and on about how excited they are for their girl’s weekend in Vermont. Because let’s be honest, who doesn’t love having one too many glasses of wine, conveniently dressed in sweatpants, reminiscing about how skinny you once were.
This Thanksgiving Eve I will be indulging in a few adult sodas with my fiancé’s friends and family (Yes, I’m newly engaged and typing fiancé is still mind boggling). It’s going to be awesome and I can’t wait but a little piece of me wishes I could see the tacky shoes Courtney shows up in, how good Tom looks, and Liz not so discretely puking on the bar room floor. I know I know, I sound like a real life Regina George but when it comes to the awkwardness of high school you just can’t help but enjoy the drunken mess that is Thanksgiving Eve. It’s like an episode of Bad Girls Club, Fashion Police (minus the designer duds) and the Bachelor all rolled into one.
For those of you who read through this entire article not knowing what FOMO is or thinking it was a typo, shame on you. FOMO = Fearing of Missing Out. And I’m missing out big time!