On a cold, rainy Saturday night in January, don’t ask me why every college girl’s idea isn’t to let a Snuggie pass as an outfit and call it a day. Instead, it is to put on high heels that hurt the ground as much as they hurt our ankles and go wait in line to get into a place accessorized with booze, spit and sawdust. But apparently the word “syllabus” followed by “week”, is enough to make any homebody college student throw on some cheap red lipstick and think they can hit the whip. The only time during college where an entire week is dedicated to a single sheet of paper with common knowledge information. An entire week dedicated to classes where you learn how many times you need to get out of bed to pass. In other words, syllabus week is professors turning their noses and simply saying, “You can have this one.”

So, last Tuesday, I found myself in the situation of a kid during syllabus week. As I stood in my blue suede pumps standing on the overcrowded sidewalk waiting for a cab with more college girls which meant it would be drunk and emotionally charged, I repeated to myself what I always do when I’m headed out the night before an 8am: I’m pretty sure I got this. 

There have been many times I have been called the ‘grandma’ of my friend group for reasons unknown. Assuming it has anything to do with my incessant need/love for napping and or cream of wheat, I’m free to think those are valid past times. So, being the ‘grandma’, I suggested we leave obnoxiously early in order to avoid the rain/lines. 

As much as I love bumping shoulders with strangers that smell like tacos and are probably doing ecstasy in the bathroom, while also paying $5 for a drink (for those of you not familiar with “bar schools” and these people in China that can make you magically 21, you can decide my beverage of choice on the weekends). So I stood in line, and if you couldn’t already tell, I was super stoked to be there.

 Knowing the usual drill, I approached the front of the line and pulled out the usual $5, handing it to the bouncer while probably studying his “Mom” tattoos and mumbling something like “please don’t hurt me.”

 It was then that I experienced the most “grandma” moment of my entire life. Handing me the $5 back, the bouncer looks at me and says, “No cover yet. It’s too early.”

In that moment, I immediately understood the emotional high that any senior citizen experiences when they see the words, “Early Bird Special.”

I understand Poppy, I understand. 

Why is there no adrenaline high for a woman like seeing the phrase 50% off? Why do we immediate salivate at the words, “7 for $27” when you pass Victoria’s Secret? Especially when the secret is that Victoria is a b*tch who has overpriced underwear and impossible standards? Why is anything that may involve us spending money and ultimately working harder in the future therapeutic as long as it involves a Loft tag? 

While I will never understand buying 7 cartons of eggs, just because they were on sale, I do somewhat understand, Poppy. I understand.