As a junior in college, it goes without being said that I haven’t been in high school for quite some time.
There’s not a lot I miss about those days. Class starting at 7:30 every morning, pointless busy work, panic over SAT scores and AP testing (shout out to lap desks). I was a pretty nerdy kid in high school. I didn’t go out much, but I went out enough — and eavesdropped enough — to understand the intricate paradigm that controls the most important part of high school: the parties.
High school parties are a spectacle in their own right to be admired, if not gawked at with disbelief. The entire process is intricate and basically every party follows the exact same pattern as if it were outlined during the commercial breaks of MTV2 and FX. From the planning all the way to talking about it weeks later, high school parties are a ridiculous caricature of adult social gatherings.
They’re always sketchily planned when so-and-so’s parents are out of town. There’s never enough alcohol for everyone to even get a relaxing buzz, people always take pictures by the microwave, and they’re always talked about as if it were the wildest party that had ever happened since whatever time period they’re learning about in AP U.S. History.
Via: susannahhope.com
This summer I worked at home and finagled my way into a high school party. Yes, a legitimate high school party thrown by a 16-year-old concerned with college apps and prom dates. This was no high school reunion or party thrown by the class of 2014, because, in my eyes, those are just college parties not at college. I went to the real deal.
Through the grapevine I heard that Shaundra (names changed for anonymity), who I worked with, was thinking about kinda sorta maybe having a party. Typical unsure, correct? Farther down the watermelon vine (respect the other fruits that grow on vines) I saw the “official” guest list for the evening that kinda sorta would be happening. I decided I knew enough people going and had enough conversations with Shaundra that it wouldn’t be too awkward if I showed up. It’s important to note that I also was not the only college student going, nor the only person who goes to UF, so this was obviously the event of the summer.
I told my brother I’d drive because I wasn’t looking to get turnt with some of these kids for their first time. He’s young enough and knew enough people so I figured it looked just a smidge less sketch if I brought him with me. (Shout to Dylan. You don’t get to be anonymous.) So we find the house and knock on the door, and Shaundra answers and is totally cool with us being there. Score. We’re in. She said it started at 9, but showing up in the very beginning is weird, so we got there at 10.
Via: topicalisle.wordpress.com
The first thing I noticed was the astounding lack of alcohol. No one mentioned anything about BYOB to anyone, so there was a half bottle of peach Absolut (probably a bottle of her parents’ liquor cabinet), one bottle of Malibu and a 12-pack of Bud Light for the 20 people there. Score?
The next thing I noticed was there was no music. I’m upset it took me so long, but then I noticed the beer pong table. Oh, the beer pong table. This is where the #swagmonsters congregated for the evening. I made my round saying high to everyone all dressed up in their #swagmonster party attire. (If you’d like to spare yourself the details, skip to “REVIEW”.)
You see, a #swagmonster is an adolescent male subculture of Palm Beach County, Florida. They’re affluent and white, typically Jewish or Italian and range from sixth to 12th grade. They listen almost exclusively to rap, watch more “Sports Center” than ESPN themselves would ever condone, essentially live at the beach, hang out at the movie theater and they go to the gym to socialize more than lift. They tweet and Instagram all of these activities, and they are always sporting their #swagmonster uniform.
The standard uniform starts with a short, clean haircut because obviously their neurotic mothers aren’t going to let them look disheveled, often with a Miami Heat snapback over it. They usually wear a large chain with a religious symbol, either a chai, a star of David or a cross. Their shirt of choice is either a Miami Heat shirt or jersey or a Hollister tee or tank. (Yes, Hollister. And it doesn’t get any better.)
They never wear pants, always shorts, but I guarantee they are not the shorts you are imagining in your head. “Yeah, shorts, like khaki shorts. Or maybe basketball shorts. Sounds like they might wear basketball shorts,” your inner monologue may be saying, but sadly, no. Cargo shorts. Big, wide, long, obnoxious, be-pocketed cargo shorts. I know, I know, this is what the very near future of college campuses believes is acceptable, but please bear with me because it does not get better. Long socks are a must, either black or Nike Elite, the flashier the better and anything other than plain black or Nike Elite just does not fly. Unfortunately their shoes of choice are either Nike Free Runs (yes, they proudly wear running shoes to parties) or… Sperry’s.
REVIEW: Sperry’s, long socks, cargo shorts, Hollister tee, flashy chain, optional Heat snapback.
Back to the party. So I’m at the beer pong table, and they tell me it’s my turn. Cool. I’m the only one in college at the table, I’m gonna go beast mode. So I do, and after someone lands a ball in my cup, I go to take a drink and I realize that there is only water in all the cups. Alright. I’ve done this before. You have a drink to the side you sip from instead of beer. Well, not here. There were no drinks. They were just playing pong for the sake of it and you could see the pure joy on their faces over how cool they thought they were.
Shortly soon after someone my own age shows up with a case of PBR. Hallelujah, thank HaShem. He also laughs at the alcohol situation and hides the case for just a select few to share. At this point I tell Dylan that I’m in college and he’s not yet, so I get drinking priority and he gets to drive home.
A few of us just watch for a bit. The painfully awkward flirting. The bizarre clothing choices. The water pong. At one point, two #swagmonsters call their sketchy friend to sketchily drive them around the neighborhood while they smoke in the backseat, even though Shaundra told them they could just go on the patio, but clearly that’s beneath them. I dunno. I just report the stuff.
At about midnight. the kids were faded beyond belief (really only their belief). The adults in the room (those of us with high school diplomas) decided we were bored of the beer and wanted to make a mixed drink. All we had was the peach Absolut and Malibu, and the only mixer we could find was almond milk. After I spilled the almond milk all over the floor, because I’m smooth like that, I made us the cocktail. It actually tasted good, and I kinda wanna make it again. I highly recommend almond milk in cocktails.
Everyone started filtering out a little after. I guess the kids had to make their curfews. It was exactly what I had expected. Minimally planned, some sketch randos showed up, and it was not all that exciting, but that did not stop the Instagrams a-flowing. Every girl posted from it as if they had just bought out the entire VIP section of LIV. The guys were talking about it for a week after, and I made sure to get in on the Instagram game by taking a picture next to the microwave because every good high school party has pictures of people posing in front of the microwave.
It was a weird night, and I kinda felt inappropriate going. But I quickly got over that after seeing how funny it was. Just be thankful you’re past that stage in your life.
Featured photo courtesy of: shuttleandlimousine.com
