Of course, it’s important to go to parties

There’s a little crater in the corner of my black eyeshadow palette, a nod to the lacklustre winged eyeliner that’s become my sort of pre-celebration ritual. Despite desperately attempting to convince myself I’m an introvert, there’s something about the casual hedonism of house parties, the celebration for the mere sake of it, the repetitive comfort of small talk with old acquaintances.

Being twenty is this odd limbo space, where we still lack a fully solidified identity or prefrontal cortex, but the insecurity of teenage-hood has somewhat worn off. This is why you can arrive to the function in stilettos and an unnecessarily fluffy jacket, or with pearls in your hair, or with a reject shirt from the back of your cupboard, and nobody really seems to bat an eye.

With the rehash of recession pop (think of the album Brat), the heroin chic aesthetic, and the growing fascination surrounding “the scene” (whatever that means) there’s a few ways to view partying in your youth. An escape from reality, an escape from yourself, a protest of sorts, a ritual, an empty habit, a lifestyle reserved for the morally inferior idiots (according to the kingpins of Hustle Culture). Escapism is a privilege – it’s the chance to be someone or somewhere else for a moment, to be acutely aware that glaciers are melting faster than the ice in your vodka sprite, that doom feels a bit too imminent for your comfort – but to smile because someone said your dress is “so your colour!” Maybe it’s blatant ignorance, maybe it’s the indomitable human spirit, maybe it’s Maybelline!

Whenever I’m getting ready for a party (usually organised on “clubbnnshit,” an old group chat, seasoned in the art of beer pong) I think of a poem called The Years, one of my favourites. I’ve kept it safely copy-and-pasted into my notes app since I found it:

All the parties you spent
watching the room
from a balcony
where someone joined you
to smoke then returned.
And how it turns out no one
had the childhood they wanted,
and how they’d tell you this
a little drunk, a little slant
in less time than it took
to finish a cigarette
because sad things
can’t be explained.
Behind the glass and inside,
all your friends buzzed.
You could feel the shape
of their voices. You could
tell from their eyes they were
in some other place. 1999
or 2008 or last June.
Of course, it’s important
to go to parties.To make
life a dress or a drink
or suede shoes someone wears
in the rain. On the way home,
in the car back, the night sky
played its old tricks. The stars
arranged themselves quietly.
The person you thought of drove
under them. Away from the party,
(just like you) into the years.

The Years – Alex Dimitro

I think my love for silly little parties boils down to that one part:

“To make life a dress or a drink or suede shoes someone wears in the rain“

A good party is a reversion in time, back to when the world felt infinitely smaller and more saturated. A good party is a consolation – a reminder that despite it all, Pitbull’s Hotel Room Service still exists, your best friend will still grab your hand and dance with you, the stars will still arrange themselves quietly, and the world will still turn. We get a moment to put aside whatever’s inevitably falling apart and celebrate merely being alive, getting older, but still somehow being young. People seem to get caught up in the notion that something has to be decidedly “deep” to be assigned any value or moral significance. Maybe, subconsciously, I’m writing this pretentious blogpost on partying in a final desperate attempt to assign value to the habit. There will always be a place for seriousness in life, but secluding yourself between the pages of self-help books and reading Camus’ philosophy won’t be valuable if what you really need in that moment is to giggle about a joke you’ve already forgotten. Life is inherently playful. Play. Some people will never be afforded that privilege.

How to Not Be a Perfectionist – Molly Brodak

People are vivid
and small
and don’t live
very long—

Maybe the acquaintance who predictably asks “how were exams?!” at every party doesn’t really care how my exams went. It doesn’t really matter either way. That’s the point. As much as I used to complain that I hate small talk, these seemingly pointless social niceties are what it means to be a person. We talk about the weather and feign care for one another until, sometimes, miraculously, we find ourselves truly and deeply caring for a person.

Most partying is inherently shallow. I think once in a while, it’s okay to stand in the shallow side of the pool, breathe, stop treading for a minute.