Oh to be young again....

When I walked through the door of my guy friends’ apartment Friday night, I was intrigued to find, not my friends, as I’d expected, but a bevy of scantily-clad freshman girls — or at least so I’d thought.

I soon found out that only some of them were freshman. The others were seniors — in high school.

They were visiting one of the boys who lived in the apartment. The make-up they’d used to cake their face and the combs they’d used to tease their hair were strewn about the bedrooms. They stood in packs around the living room — two on each end of the beer pong table, a few by the TV, three or four crowding around the jungle juice and a best friend comforting her crying counterpart in the kitchen.

They’d taken over.

This scene, of course, did not phase my guy friends in the least. On the contrary, it was just another step in the process every guy goes through when becoming a “real college guy.” First, they get their own apartment. With this apartment comes a real refrigerator. Now, they have a normal sized fridge to store their beer in. Second, they spend massive amounts of money on a sound/TV system for the living room — which, combined with the homemade beer pong table, will serve as the only decoration in the entire apartment. Then they have parties with lots of younger girls who are impressed with their apartment, beer, stereo and table. One of the male inhabitants of the party was so far along n this process that he attended the party in plaid pajama pants normally reserved for Christmas morning. He’s such a “real college guy” that he doesn’t even have to wear real pants.

My friends and I, the older, more mature seniors in college, spent most of the night around the coffee table, playing sophisticated games like horse race and kings. The younger high school girls continued to gather in clumps, only interacting with us to drunkenly ask if we also thought high school girls were b---hes. Seeing as how some of them were in high school four months ago, I told them I trusted their judgment.

About three hours after my arrival, the older crowd found themselves suddenly alone. Not only was it far past the high schooler’s bed times, but also far past their limit and a few had curled up on the bathroom floor.

Walking home that night, I was more than happy to be four years past that point and going back to a decorated apartment with a fridge filled with real food.