The real inspiration for this post is not to talk about impending hang-outs, but one that has already taken place.  A little background for you?  From sixth grade through high school I adored this boy (we shall call him R).  I never dated R, and with the exception of one drunken make out session, nothing productive came out of my nearly-a-decade-long crush.  He graduated high school with me in 2003 and bounced around to several colleges before he found one that “stuck.”  He’s slated to graduate in 2010.  We haven’t been tight since we went to Bonnaroo–a group trip where I was Susie Sober and spoiled everyone’s fun by being slightly annoyed at the rampant drug use among the 80,000 people who were not nearly as dedicated to Radiohead as me.  So anyway, R is home from Utah State right now, and I wanted to “catch up.”

After some unproductive barhopping, I agreed to follow R’s text message to a garage in N-town. A few years ago, I sat in the very same barn. Back then, it wasn’t as well insulated or decorated. The smoking den it is today was only in its infancy. Now there is a Super Nintendo and some band posters. The boys were drinking fancy microbrews. Back then there were some cold, cold chairs and a leftover New Years’ keg, complete with R doing kegstands. The scenery has changed slightly, it’s true.

The people have not evolved.

In high school and even during the first bit of college, I wanted nothing more than to fit in with this crowd. R, who hated me for getting mad at him about smoking weed in high school, passed me my first joint. He let me experience parties. He provided an element of danger. But once I got to experience all these things, I realized they weren’t all they were cracked up to be. Pot didn’t make R cool or uncool–it just drained his wallet. His spontaneity lost its novelty when he showed up to Tom Petty rolling.

Now, here I was, a year and a half out of college and sitting again in this barn watching R with his new girlfriend (another pseudo hippie who seems mostly to embrace the marijuana smoking aspect of the lifestyle above the friendliness or social freeness often espouse). Could this be the social high of my December? Would this musical gathering be the “coolest” I get for 2008? How is this even fun?

While there is nothing wrong with a group of college kids or Matthew McConaughey sitting above a garage smoking weed, drinking beer and passing around musical instruments, I just don’t think it’s my scene. The majority of these boys are done with school; the major exception is R. But it’s not like R is their fearless leader in small-town Boho lifestyle. They’re all equally aimless, and they all seem perfectly content with how they are living. While the various percussion instruments, guitars and even the mandolin were interesting to me for about five seconds, I found myself nearly having a panic attack. The situation itself wasn’t bad; there are certainly worse places I could be on a Friday night. But being there made me realize how badly I didn’t want to be there.

My mind raced back to the beers I had and how I should just give it all up. Sometimes, in these panicky moments, I think in the extreme. Then I remembered that I kind of enjoy a nice beer with a steak, and that at 24 years old, drinking doesn’t really make me “bad ass.” This, I thought to myself, is what being around people from high school does to me. I freak out. I thought about my impending drinks with my big city friend and how the only interesting anecdote from my month will be small town gossip and my impromptu pot-and-beer-fueled garage concert.

Thankfully around this point, my friend realized I was uncomfortable and offered to leave with me and come back later on her own. There are benefits to having a friend who has known you since second grade, but the very fact that we ended up there in the first place shows one of the downsides.

By the way, this is a cry for help.