Two weeks before New Years Eve, my home girl Kimberly sent me a text about the house party she was throwing.
“Make sure you bring a bottle and bring yo a$%, Shenequa! I know how you are,” she joked.
I promised her I would show up, even telling her about the gorgeous outfit I was going to wear, but at the same time I secretly I wished Sprint would cut my phone off like I hadn’t paid the bill so that couldn’t get the text to begin with.
You see, it’s no slight against Kim, it’s just I’m 27-years-old and I would much rather stay at home and watch reruns of “The Golden Girls” than go out to a party.
Welcome to the world of the party pooper.
I think I was 17 when I realized I was an old fart. It was my best friend, Sheena’s 18th birthday and our moms finally let us stay out late. Like most Janes who swore they were grown, we went to Times Square and ate at Red Lobster because we considered it fine dining.
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After rounds of heart-clogging Cheddar Bay Biscuits and oily shrimp scampi, we decided to go to the movies and see Brown Sugar. By 10 p.m., I let out my first yawn, and after dinner, I was barely keeping up.
“Shenequa, why do you look like you’re about to pass out? The night is young and so are we!” Sheena said.
“It’s getting late and I’m tired. I think I’ll head home,” I yawned.
You would’ve thought I told my girls I was voting Republican the way they looked at me. I was the recipient of neck rolls, a hair flip and I think Sheena was the first woman on record to give a side eye. The very first!
The next day in school I heard all about the cute Johns they met and how great the movie was.
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