The Aging of My Party Life: Ping Pong Balls are just for Ping Pong

            With the spring weather slowly approaching, the call rings out with me and others that maybe it was time to think ahead to throwing some kind of bonfire social, pleasing both pyromaniacs and s’more lovers alike. The preparation and planning hit the early stages and before I knew it I couldn’t help but think of the differences I had constructed from my younger college years of house party gatherings a plenty. Those days were fun at the time but as the years go by, the frills and cheap bells don’t ring the way they used to. “Pack the house and let’s drain a 30 pack” was the battle cry of the naive freshman who writes for you now. That guy who expressed his love for Coheed and Cambria at the drop of an inebriated hat finds himself evolved into a whiskey sipping fan of all things vinyl. Right now my college self would be screaming into my ear about the lack of beer pong tables and the functionality of having no way to DJ my favorite angst ridden Rise Against album. Current Tyler just wonders about mowing the yard in time and how loud is “too loud” on a Saturday night. The older I am, the more my structure of “a good weekend” involves more board games and fewer shots.

            Some of you lovely readers will think I’m crazy for saying this but I’ve been having more being a stick in the mud then I ever did as the party animal unleashed. Those night of staying out til bar close don’t shine as bright as the prospect of getting 8 hours and not shuffling through a lazy Sunday avoiding bright lights. Lacking interesting horror stories, regretful pictures and disappearing wallet funds can be a tragic side effect of my hermit crab style but with that comes the gift of control. Control at a party could mean a party czar who makes everyone dance to the beat of his drum and his drum alone but that won’t leave you many friends for long. My idea of a smart party just means no one is going to drunkenly punch me unless they have a mighty fine good reason. More than a few times I can remember one cross word at a bar setting someone off before wondering if something really was “going down.” Let’s play Cards Against Humanity with our friends while someone else steps over vomit in the quest of another shot of Jack.

            Good lord I sound like a old man. I should check and see if any kids are on my lawn before finishing my next thought. The older I get, the harder is it to see everyone like the days before. Maybe that’s the trick: as younger man I could go full throttle and make every night something we would never truly remember as another round was sure to follow the next weekend. Now, those moments come less and less so it’s better to savor the time spend together instead of wolf it down. Don’t get me wrong, I still bar hop and I love a good night out at the bar. Music, energy, and usually something weird always come out to play at the local bar. Yet I know eight people that come over on a Saturday night are the ones who win or lose, full keg or single malt on the rocks I will have an amazing time with. Keep the Fireball shots; I’ll take an in joke about the Bramsquach any day of the week.