The pure joy of leaving the straps and bindings of our parents’ rules is still nestled deep in the happy place of our subconscious. We savor the memories of tossing out their warnings and racing into wildness – a place we weren’t allowed before.
I hadn’t realized I’d been bound and gagged in a parental hold until, suddenly, miraculously, on a weekend morning in early September, I was set free.
It took me weeks to loosen up, but day after day I discovered a lightness of being that I’d never experienced during my first 18 years of life.
And then, my first college party.
For the first official college co-ed “social,” one of my more savvy roommates booked a half dozen rooms at a local motel. A group of us invited high school (now college) boyfriends near and far, as well as new boyfriends from a neighboring university. We joined the college dance from 9 to 11, then penetrated the hotel rooms like ants at a picnic table. Several boys brought the ingredients for something called a Screwdriver (at first I wondered why we needed a tool box).
We danced to loud fast music and loud slow music and drank away our childhood, entering what we thought was a wild new adulthood with no bounds.
I was the first to go. Amazed that the room spun like a top, I sat on the bed to slow down the globe. Next thing I knew, I had decorated the motel rug with the contents of my stomach, which were mainly pretzels, orange juice, and vodka. I woke up, totally dressed, in the shower, warm water pouring over me like over a hothouse flower in a tropical jungle.
Hours later I woke up again to the scene of half a dozen passed-out girls and boys on the two double beds and the floor, snoring and gagging. No one resembled anything wild or free.
For the next 20 years I never got wild enough to drink another glass of orange juice, much less vodka.
My wild days began enthusiastically and ended swiftly.
Freedom, it seemed, was not another word for wild.
And how we dread our children learning that same lesson.
Thanks to Google Images.