Party lines

Hi friends! Last week, I dared to declare that my neighborhood walk broke my COVID-adjacent hibernation. Thankfully, I was right and had another packed week in New York City.

As we saunter through December, we stumble upon many holiday parties along the way. I’m happy to report to the adolescent, yearning version of myself that I have enough close relationships to attend multiple. With only one day with snow in the sky (which melted upon hitting the ground) so far this year, these parties are one of my few reminders that this is a big month for most of the country.

I went to two holiday parties this week that I’d like to tell you about, similarities and differences abound. On Friday, my friend Andjelija hosted a party with her roommates at their East Village apartment. It was my first time at her place, right in the thick of the neighborhood. Andje and her roommates decorated the apartment with holiday fun. They made mixed drinks with red and green dye across the kitchen from a table full of dips for your chips (but I snuck a few random McNuggets tucked at the corner of the table). The spiral staircase to the basement immediately upon walking in had Christmas lights all the way down its railing. They had a holiday living room animation on the TV downstairs that we scrutinized endlessly.

I didn’t know the majority of the attendees, but it’s nice when your friends have good taste in friends. It was easy to move about the party meeting people, introducing them to your people, and sipping green sangria. We went to their little backyard and danced. At one point, I felt an unknown fluid drop into my hair (an unfortunately common NYC experience). Unfortunately, it was mouthwash. Apparently, their upstairs neighbor does this when they’re being too loud.

I had a great time, but I unfortunately continued the night way past its due date. After a few bars, it was time to go home. I woke up terribly hungover but unable to throw up and dealt with queasiness for the rest of the day. Despite packing my day with enough activities, I was unable to shake the feeling. I had another holiday party, after all. This time, Meera and I ventured far up Manhattan to…Manhattanville? West Harlem? Hamilton Heights? Too far north for me to understand neighborhood boundaries despite living in a neighborhood earlier this year other Brooklyn losers would deem too far. When I told my friend Matias about my journey, he said Have fun upstate! and made me laugh.

We arrived 45 minutes late, and this dinner party was not the kind of event you could meander in and out of. I was stressed and stupidly took the slowest train in the world to get there. There was a grandness to their building, nestled near the top of a hill in the part of Manhattan that starts requiring a topographical map to analyze it properly. I accidentally knocked on the wrong door.

Roommates Max and Justin sat at the heads of a line of folding tables joined by a white tablecloth. Max’s girlfriend Charlotte cooked the majority of the dishes for the 12(?) of us, which included their friends from around the city (again, all around my age). The dishes and wine pairings came out in courses that we could follow along through a printed menu. I did not know the majority of attendees, but I wasn’t puncturing a clique. We mostly held conversation as a large group while enjoying one of many delectable dishes. All of the dinner party guests were in awe of Charlotte’s cooking, which was both delicious and abundant. I forgot how to cook pasta once I started dating Meera.

Max loves hosting parties like these: a commitment to sophistication amidst the silliness of his guests. There was a dress code, and I had to look up what “smart casual” meant. One of Max’s friends is training to be a sommelier and paired the cheap wines we brought with each course. It was a treat to watch him earnestly describe the Snoop Dogg red wine. Justin offered to make espresso for everyone, and we heard him yell expletives in the kitchen while Goldilocksing each glass.

Both of these nights were a blast, but they provided different brands of joy. Parties are proof of how 20-somethings mature in various ways. The proof is in the (figgy) pudding when you experience them in quick succession during the holidays. Mix that in with the nostalgia we experience during this time of year, and you have a recipe for reflection.

I started my 20s bouncing between house parties, many affiliated with fraternities. I roamed the neighborhood drinking water bottles without water, scantily clad with my gang of wh*res. We did shots and sloppily made out with questionable figures in sticky basements. A mature party was when a slightly older friend would host a party at their apartment with a smaller group and maybe a theme. I couldn’t host a real party in my dorm room, but I’d help my off-campus friends and lovers get their common rooms ready for rambunctiousness. Although not universal, I’d deem my experience typical for my age.

Now approaching 25, I have expanded access to different kinds of parties. Not every party is a blackout, dirty romp anymore. Well, you can still black out, but the settings are more civilized. You can go to bars and clubs now, spaces meant for debauchery. I see more people doing drugs now than in college, as my age group has had more time for peer pressure to whittle away at and/or curiosity to get the best of us.

We don’t all live in dorms or similar off-campus apartments anymore. People make their own money or don’t (or their parents give it to them). We’ve trickled out of our campuses and into the neighborhoods of the world. Some of us live with our friends, some with randoms, some alone. Some of us have moved in with our partners. Our apartments vary in size, price, style, and era. Because our homes have diversified, so, too, have our parties.

We also have less stamina to endure events we don’t naturally enjoy. We have jobs and more responsibilities. More people are speaking their truth: wanting to go to bed early, wanting to cook a meal, wanting to spend less money, wanting to enjoy intellectually stimulating conversation. Others fly the opposite way. Most of us seek a balance between both sides of the party spectrum.

When I was younger, there were firmer divisions between grades and ages. Most of my friends were in my year, which started blurring more as I advanced through high school. The blurring continues. I remember during my stint in New Hampshire, I felt a kinship with the people in my age group as if we all were the same age, even though our unit ranged from 22 to 26. People who could have been my sorority big or even big fifth-grader reading to my first-grade class now seemed the same age as me. Not only were we on the same level at work, but our energy levels and activities mirrored each other, as well.

Without the tethers of school keeping us united, we all float down different tributaries. We hopefully find others in the canoes nearby. We change, but do we all mature? I couldn’t imagine hosting a multi-course dinner party with my own cooking, but there’s also probably a dinner party down the block with 20-somethings that features a live jazz performance instead of the Lo-Fi Girl stream going for multiple hours (and more expensive wine without a rapper on the label).

But what does maturity even mean, anyway? It doesn’t have to mean liking or even affording the finer things. Some people are great at their jobs but don’t know how to use a dishwasher. Others are great at decorating their homes but don’t know what a Roth IRA is. Even if you have all of these skills, you can still be a conceited person who’s hard to be around.

Does being in a relationship mature you? I’m not sure if I can answer that, but I can say that it ages you. I’m a better listener and more mindful of others, which I think are mature qualities. But I also am more likely to punt on a night than my single friends are. That certainly ages me. Some people in relationships I know have lost all of their friends due to the insular nature of codependency. They create a beautiful home with a similarly sweet animal roving about, but how mature are they if they have no one else to share it with? Conversely, some single friends have robust social networks but go to bed every night longing for someone special to join them. Does their dissatisfaction age them or not?

I do see a correlation between the more “mature” parties I’ve been to and the presence of couples. Couples served as a large delegation of the dinner party, including the hosts. Although Max would probably host a dinner party like this on his own, having Charlotte to do it with makes it easier and more fun. It’s fun to play house together and do the activities you hope you’ll continue to enjoy when you’re older.

This brand of maturity works because it’s authentic. No one is pretending to be someone they’re not, to try to impress people for the sake of impressing them. I didn’t see anyone looking down at one another for their job, interests, or conversation choices. We just all went to have a good time.

We lose when we try to be something we’re not. I’ve read lots of internet commentary lately of adults shaming the young, angry that they don’t realize how precious their youth is. They chastise TikTok-pilled 13-year-olds ask for Dior perfume for Christmas (instead of Adventure Time t-shirts like I did). Meanwhile, some of those angry respondents are the same people pumping their faces with Botox and filler. We all want what we can’t have.

This dissatisfaction with one’s age is exacerbated for the New York yuppies like myself. We are constantly comparing ourselves to one another. Even as we fall into the activities we enjoy, we question our own interests. Am I falling behind everyone else? Is it weird that I have no desire to join a book club? or Why can’t I stay out as late as my friends want to? Why don’t my friends respect my time the way I respect theirs? My birthday is coming up in January, and I know that whatever I do will be loud, late, and massive. Does that have any mark on my maturity?

Accepting yourself wholly is a lifelong process that many people never dare to try. We all want one answer to everything and an antidote that allows all of our choices to fall on the same side of a topic. Why is it so hard to embrace where we are at this very moment? The holidays, especially, are a time when we beat ourselves up. And this spirals past productivity and into uselessness. Stopping this thought pattern is much easier said than done, and I know I’ll have to confront it even more in the coming weeks.

Maturity is being vulnerable and bringing others into our sincerity. With this logic, Andje’s party with her roommates and raucous friends isn’t any less mature than Max’s dinner party. This party archetype is what I see most from my friends and seems most in line with my age group’s expectations of a fun time. But they really can’t be compared other than parties 1. The hosts worked hard on 2. I attended 3. I had fun at.

As you adjust to the expectations of your family and friends this week, try to do it in earnest. Keep your integrity while showing them a good time. Pace yourself. The next Monday is Christmas, and I will probably have something to say about it in case you’re scrolling through your phone under the dinner table. Enjoy your voyage back to your hometown if you are making one!

Hey Syd. My friend has always loved music and just started making their own songs. Of course I want to support them…but they just showed me a song and it is beyond embarrassing. They want to post it on social media but I don’t want them to get clowned. What do I do?

— SoundCloud Secondhand Embarrassment

This made me laugh. It’s always unfortunate when your friend wants to do something creative and share it when it’s not meant for public consumption.

Unfortunately, you have to let your friend fail. Even if they realize someday how terrible their song was and think they wished you stopped them, you can’t prevent them from completing this phase. They will always ask What if I did that when I had the chance? and I think that’s the saddest question to ask yourself. And who knows? This might lead them to release good music later. And you get to be one of their day-ones shouted out at their show.

I’m not saying to loudly encourage them to post, but act like you’re excited for them. You are excited for them to express themselves and be prideful in their work. When you share the song on your Instagram story with three fire emojis, the world will know you’re just being a good friend.

Want advice from someone as unqualified but possibly more confident than you? Send in a question for Olympic Coaching.