A break up letter to my party-girl era...

Picture this: I'm sitting on a shuttle bus in the middle of a paddock. As I stare absentmindedly out the window - I watch two girls stumble arm-in-arm towards the coach. Sporting bedazzled bralettes, sheer skirts and a healthy dose of body glitter; they arrive on board moments before the driver sounds the *beep* of the closing door. At last... the only thing lying between me and my comfy bed is the 30-minute drive home along a meandering country highway. My soundtrack? A drunk guy talking jibberish to his mate. As the bus pulls away, I catch one last glimpse of the sun setting over the makeshift stage. Adios, day-drinking festival, see you never. 

I kick my sneakers off under the seat in front of me, now sitting barefoot and cross legged on the well-worn bus seat (yes, I'm that person). My feet are tired, my social battery is running on -20%, and my stomach still feels queasy from the deep-friend potato stick I ate four hours ago. Oh... did I mention it's only 8:30pm on a Saturday night. 

Yeah... these tickets were a bit of a spur of the moment purchase for me. Something I almost instantly regretted after seeing the 'thanks for confirming your booking' messages staring back at me from my phone. 

But first, let's rewind to how my day got to this point... 

It's the morning of the festival. I jump on board the shuttle bus that will deliver me to the event. Vodka lemonade in a McDonald's cup in hand. The inkling that I don't really want to be here persists. But what the heck. I've said I'll go. I tell myself: let's just live it out and see what happens. I push down everything I am feeling as best I can, fighting the instinct that is telling me to jump ship while I still have a chance. The bus door closes. 

I proceed to shuffle through security with a yoghurt-sachet-turned-vodka-flask wedged between my crotch. Next up, I treat my tastebuds to the only non-alcoholic mixer on offer, a V energy drink (my least favourite canned beverage). I begin the classic festival ritual of spiking my own drink with my smuggled in spirits. A couple stiff refills are knocked back before making my way to the most pit. To be honest, I still feel as sober as when I woke up this morning. The only palpable difference being the potent concoction of caffeine and alcohol that I now have pulsating through my veins (anyone else find it harder to get drunk with age?). 

I look around, my eyes met by a sea of of young, drunk and festival-ready faces. Girls on shoulders. Bums in my face. There is this one guy, he is so off his chops he cant even stand straight. *Sniffs* Is that weed I am passively smoking? If you asked 19 year old me, I'd say these guys are in for a cracker of a night!  

Trust me. I've been there. I get it. I'm all for it. I'm not judging in the slightest. It's just that standing here packed in like sweaty sardines, jumping to the rhythm of a band I don't really know just isn't doing it for me like it used to. 

I shimmy my (slightly rigid & very sober) body in an attempt to mask the 'not wanting to be here' vibes that I'm pretty sure I reek of at this point. The mantra I can't help but chant in my mind as follow: This is not my scene. These are not my people. I am not enjoying this. I can't be bothered being here. Sure, I could have done the obvious thing and drunk myself into a state of oblivion to pass the day away. But my anxiety no longer permits me to do that. I've also got sh*t to do tomorrow. And I really don't think I have it in me to endure another hangover from hell that will most likely linger until next Wednesday (it hits different after 25). 

Six (slightly lengthy) hours pass, and it is here that I plan my escape; lining up bright eyed and bushy tailed for the earliest departing bus of the evening. At this point, the yearning I feel to be anywhere other than this festival is visceral. My sister has agreed to chaperone the last leg of my trek home. I try my best to contain the goofy smile that arises when she finally pulls up at the bus stop. The sigh of relief when I jump in her car is audible. By the time I walk through the front door, I have already removed my bra through my sleeve in a convoluted fashion. I swaddle myself in my fluffy pink dressing gown. Taking a seat at the dinner table, I catch the remnants of an Italian dinner party that I would have 1000% preferred to spend my evening attending. I retire to bed, taunting myself with 101 things that I could have done instead that day. Read a book, lounged at the beach, written a new blog post or god forbid... caught up on my washing. Lights out. 

Confessions of an over-thinker...

Me being me, I ruminated on the sour taste that this particular experience left in my mouth for the subsequent days. I couldn't decide what I regretted more: buying the ticket, being a party-pooper or forgetting to sunscreen my décolletage in the sweltering mosh. Whenever an event conjures such a strong emotional response in me, I know it is drawing my attention to the fact that there is something that needs to be learnt. Approximately three days later, my emotions simmered down and my rational brain re-inhabited my body. I had came to a crystal-clear conclusion: Woweee, even though that wasn't fun... that really needed to happen. 

A week has now passed since this day. It's 8:30pm on a Saturday night. Although this time, I sit here writing this after having spent a wholesome evening hand wrapping wontons and enjoying a few glasses of vino. My soundtrack? The latest 'lost touch with the common man' segment on my fav podcast (if you know, you know). I've allocated a few moments to document my thoughts here, cuppa in hand. I'm planning on curling up in bed with my latest book in the next half-hour. I need an early night before the day-hike I have planned for tomorrow. Life is good. 

Hang on... why did that whole festival saga thing 'need to happen'?

You see, that feeling of 'not really vibing' a drinking scene isn't exactly new to me. In fact, I'd go as far as saying I am very well-versed in the one liner exit phrase I use to dismiss myself from a drinking event that I don't care to entertain any longer. I'm off now guys! No, really, I'm going to call it a night! Have the best time though! In the past, I might have slightly regretted the last few drink rounds I didn't really want to partake in. But I'd always squash any ounce of disinterest I had in the whole thing as me just having a bit of an 'off night'. In actuality... how many times did I need to put myself through this before I could grasp the simple and blatantly obvious fact that I just don't really enjoy this scene anymore.

Clearly, I wasn't listening hard enough. So the universe threw me a big ol' (overpriced) lesson that I was sure not to miss. Bless! I can now tell you (without a shadow of a doubt): that I really don't enjoy binge-drinking events anymore. Phew! That feels good to get off my chest. 

Loosening my grip on my party-girl era

It feels difficult to say goodbye to that young and fun 20-something-year-old partying Serena I know (and will always love). I'm not sure why, but I've had a hard time mentally letting go of her. Maybe this comes from self-imposed pressure to always strive to be the 'life of the party'. Maybe it comes from the bountiful supply of 'boring girl' comments (or glares) I've encountered as I have tapered down my drinking capacity over the previous few years. Either way, I'm only now just realising that cutting the cords to my former festival-loving self will not result in a sense of lack in my life. No, not in the slightest. This is opening up a whole new world of abundant (sober) opportunity for me. 

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I no longer like alcohol. It's just the setting (and quantity) I consume it in has changed. From now on, you can find me having casual knock off's at a seaside hotel. Hosting dinner and wine nights. Cracking a cold one at the campsite. Who knows, maybe even letting my hair down with  the occasional boogie on a d-floor (just to remind myself I've still got it). 

A final word from me to you...

I know this post will find its way into the hands of those that need to hear it. If you are one of them, let it act as a catalyst for embarking on your own journey of less-intoxicated fun as you enter your late twenties. Clink.