If I could give my newly acquired, extremely pumped-up social life a human characteristic it would have to be, without a shadow of doubt, Restless Leg Syndrome.
It’s not very glamorous and the name itself is anything but cute. However, when considering the clinically proven symptoms of RLS, it seems extremely fitting. When I look on WebMD, it explains RLS as when a person has “uncomfortable sensations in their legs” and “an irresistible urge to move their legs to relieve the sensations.” For purposes of this incredibly stretched and possibly but not intentionally insensitive metaphor, let’s replace the word “leg” with the words “social life.”
So now I can say that, medically speaking, I need to go out every night in order to cure the insatiable itch that is my social life.
Henceforth, it shall now be called “Restless Social Life Syndrome,” or RSLS for short. Send me my Nobel Prize in the mail.
Everyone said my life would change when I turned 21. And I knew it would be very exciting, but I really had no idea how serious they were. You see, I’ve been 21 for less than a week now and I just can’t seem to scratch the proverbial itch.
A few years ago, if you would have told me that I would love bars and clubs as much I do now, I would have laughed in your face. I’d gotten exposed to that scene when I was way too young. Growing up just outside Los Angeles, my best friend and I found a club in Hollywood that didn’t check IDs before 10 p.m. We’d tell our parents we were going to a movie, sleeping at the other’s house or some other variation of the oldest lie in the history of teenage rebellious lies. We’d then get dressed up and go dance the night away. We were 15 and we thought we were the coolest people alive. It got old quickly though. Being super sweaty and experiencing the unsolicited grinding of strangers was fun for approximately 45 minutes, then I just felt violated.
We did that multiple times a month until they moved the venue to a place that actually followed the law and checked IDs at the door. It was a completely devastating blow to our social lives and we were thrown right back into the mundane repetition of boring suburban life. You know what there is to do on the weekends when you’re younger than 18 that actually counts as fun? Nothing. And don’t let anyone tell you differently.
If you had said to me, “Hayley, you’re going to go into a really hot room filled with a bunch of people and get really sweaty. You’re going to feel extremely violated by the guys surrounding you and you’re going to be drinking something that is going to make you feel at least six times hotter than you are, and you’re going to have so much fun that you want to cry,” I would have laughed in your face, flipped my hair and walked the other direction.
It sounds like the most unappealing thing ever, right?
Right.
But as it turns out, you would be totally right because it totally rules.
Now let me just clear the air, because I realize if you don’t know me (which I’m willing to bet most of you don’t because you probably just looked at my name to the left and didn’t recognize it), I must sound like some crazy, alcoholic party girl, which I am totally not. Not only am I not a crazy, alcoholic party girl, I am a very responsible, newly 21 young lady who knows her boundaries, understands limits and took very seriously to heart the letter I got from our very own San Diego State Office of Student Affairs warning me of the dangers and life-threatening outcomes of such detrimental and life-ruining detriments such as alcohol poisoning and drinking and driving.
Turning 21 was never really about the drinking for me anyway. We’d all be lying if we said our 21st birthdays were the first time we ever had a sip of alcohol, but for me it was more about just being able to go out and do it. As long as I can remember, I’ve been the baby of my group of friends, but now I don’t feel so bad about it.
It’s like life handed me the key to the city and there’s no stopping me now.
I’m being warned by friends and family alike to slow down, to cool it, to not exhaust myself and to remember the little detail that I am indeed a broke college student and going out costs money, but that itch is coming. It’s like I’ve got a fever, and the only cure is more dancing.
-Hayley Rafner is a journalism junior.
