I need to tell you a story about my girl, Mandy. It's extremely relevant to the lesson I'm about to teach. When you're years, plural, out of college, stay that way. Do not revert. When you go to the bars in the vicinity of a college campus, stay off the dance floor. Don't take that shot. Or that one. Refuse that Jager Bomb, too.
In the morning, when you have to perform the walk of shame back to the bar, back to your car where you left it (no, not that kind of shame, people), hang your head in shame. Because it's SHAMEFUL how drunk you were. (But you did avoid driving under the influence of alcohol! Bonus points? I think yes!)
But dammit, if you're going to throw shame to the wind, and do it all anyway, have fun. But not tear-your-ACL kind of fun. And that's exactly what Mandy did on Friday night.
I'd like to say that she was hitting the courts in an intense game of basketball, and through an unfortunate series of events, she tore her ACL. Even better, I'd like to tell you she was busy slaying dragons, saving the world, as we twenty-somethings generally do on the weekends.
But no. That is not what happened.
Because do you know what we were doing? We were dancing. On the dance floor. Moving in some unrecognizable form to music with unrecognizable lyrics. Under the influence of Lemon Drops and mixed drinks.
And Mandy tore her ACL.
TORE IT. Her ACL! As in, the next morning, after I retrieved my car, I spent the day cozied up on the couch with her while she sat immobilized in a leg brace, doped up on Vicodin.
Explain that to your doctor, people.
"Well, uh, so... I was at (insert trashiest college bar), and um, I fell? I was drunk, yes. How old am I? Oh, you know, I'm (insert too-old-for-this-bar age)."
So that is what we learned, you guys. Responsibility.
When you're too old for the college scene, be responsible. Dance carefully.