The only thing missing is a shuffleboard court. Friday night I found myself sitting at a dinner table with nine friends, eating arroz con pollo and drinking wine.
There were candles on the table. We sustained conversation the entire time. People said things like, "Pass the dressing," "Where did you get this recipe?" and "We simply must do this more often."
When it was over -- at 10:30 p.m. -- the only thing any of us wanted to do was go to sleep.
I certainly wasn't a party animal during first year, but this is ridiculous. Gone are the days of frat parties, setting fires, throwing stuff off the balcony just to see if it was going to bounce.
We used to play Dance! Dance! Revolution! bare-chested and knock on the doors of random girls' suites in order to "meet new people." We used to sit around arguing about video games, go several days without bathing and go out in a massive herd.
("What, you mean you're really not going to let our group of 23 guys and nine girls into the party? That's just silly.")
Now we sit around the living room of our apartment, sipping Scotch, and talking about things (and people) that we hate.
"Her opinions on the aesthetics of Impressionist art really goad me. To be honest, I think the dialectic between hermeneutics and ontology really -- "
"A-J, let me interrupt," someone interjects (rudely, might I add). "Daniel, did you say this Scotch is from the Orkney Islands? It's quite -- I don't know how to put it --"
"Smokey?" my roommate and friend Dan suggests.
"Precisely. Well done chap."
Everyone agrees that Dan has done very well, and we all get tight on Scotch.
Things never reached this state last year. We lived in Lambeth, in an apartment that my friends and I dubbed "The Penthouse." Before school, I remember talking about how classy we were going to be. How we thought we would cook all the time, host swanky parties, maybe keep a plant in our window. We would have dinner parties, cocktail parties, black tie parties.
Of course, three weeks into school, our common room was destroyed, our kitchen was a penicillin farm, and our plant was dead.
This, after what was just the first of our "classy" parties, which we decided would be potluck dinner.
Because there's nothing classier than bean dip.
To make our soirees even more chic, my E-school roommate brewed his own moonshine Kahlua drink called (obviously) Penthouse.
"What's this drink you're handing to all the girls?"
"Try it, you'll love it," we'd say.
What I'm trying to say is that "class" gradually transformed into its total opposite.
But that's the way it was supposed to be.
I can still remember watching Alex standing over the pot of soupy brown liqueur for the first time, concentrating intently, wearing his lab goggles. He was stirring in a half pound of Splenda.
"Is it safe?" I asked.
"Shhhh," he said, "It needs more instant coffee."
We lived in perpetual filth, with our clothes and books thrown everywhere, juice glasses and beer cans stuck to the floors, the walls and the ceilings.
I killed our plant on at least seven separate occasions.
I think we vacuumed twice.
But this year, our garbage disposal and dishwasher hum cleanly and efficiently. We use our stove almost every night. Our plant (the same one from Lambeth) sits in our dining room window next to a small, painfully cute blue watering can.
Having survived the grave so many times, we dubbed it Jesus, and after a summer of care administered by my mother, He is doing just fine. I water Him every day, which I think is further disturbing evidence of a growing maturity.
I mean, maybe one day I'll be able to take care of a child, or at least a small animal.
And, although all this maturity has me pretty frightened, I'm coming to terms with it slowly. It's nice not to have to feel pressured to go out every weekend. It's nice to invite friends over and not to have them say, "Well, did you take care of that rodent problem yet, because if you didn't, forget about it."
The middle year in Lambeth taught me to appreciate things like a clean bathroom, scented candles on our fireplace and our vegetable steamer.
We haven't actually used the vegetable steamer yet, but we'll get around to it when we have time to really sit down and read the instruction manual. Apparently you can make steamed salmon in it, which sounds to me like a great meal. Harris Teeter sells these wonderful filets that are really just so easy to cook.
Dear God. What have I turned into?
I need to get back in the game. Back to the frats. Go streak. Something.
Maybe this weekend I will make more of an effort to drink myself into a coma, get naked in public, or go up to the roof of my apartment building and throw something off, if only for old time's sake.
But who am I kidding? I'll probably just go to sleep.
A-J's column runs bi-weekly on Tuesdays. He can be reached at aronstein@cavalierdaily.com.
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