Memo To Self: I Am Not A 25 Year Old Boy

Every time I drink with my brothers, who are somewhere around 25 years old (I could do the math here, but I’m in a bit of a hurry as I will be out the door in exactly ten minutes), I inevitably wake up the next morning – ah, afternoon – and stumble to the nearest sink to pour myself a desperately-needed glass of water so I can choke down an even more desperately needed bottle of Advil, all the while mumbling to myself: I am not a 25-year old boy. So I should not try drink like one.

So as I’m on my way out tonight, to a celebration for two friends-of-friends turning 25, in which the evite named beer pong and flip cup as two activities (yes! It’s being held in a sports bar! My favorite type of city event, and I’m excited – as someone once said to me, ‘you can take girl out of New England, but you can’t take the New England out of the girl’), I feel like I should use a permanent Sharpie Pen to inscribe “you are not a 25 year old boy” on my hand before I leave.

But I’m already dressed and made up and this would definitely not go with the look.

So we’ll see, we’ll see… (I’ll tell you tomorrow. If I can get out of bed.)