While it’s suuuuper flattering that Mom and Dad still tear up even though they’ve seen you go back to school, like, a million times now (plus, it once again reiterates your status as the favorite child), this time apart from your “summer roomies” should be much appreciated.
Besides the obvious reasons––“summer roomies?” Ha! You’re not fooling anyone. Or having to explain to your dad that, noooo, of course you’re not drinking alone. And noooo, of course you didn’t take this 1992 Chardonnay from his personal collection downstairs. But its Wine Wednesday, Daddy! ––heading back to school means more than just sisters, booze, and boys; it means freedom. So enjoy these first few weeks of debauchery because in six short weeks Mom and Dad will be invading your college for the most frightening weekend of the semester: Parents’ Weekend.
The first few hours back together are just fiiiine. Mom gushes about how much she’s missed you, how your brother’s new girlfriend is…interesting, Aunt Judy says hello, blah, blah, blah. You’re just excited to take full advantage of how much your parents have missed you. “I know Mom! It was just awful being apart for so long. Almost as awful as not having this ah-dorable new purse!” You get to eat at a restaurant where the meal doesn’t consist of adding water to a microwavable container, so that’s a plus. After a while you’re actually enjoying spending time with your parents. Life is great.
Then about eight o’clock rolls around, and you’re bored. Even worse, you’re sober. It’s Friday night and you’re with your fucking parents. Did I mention you’re sober? You’ve spent the past six weeks rebuilding your alcoholic status, and you’re concerned you might not be able to hold a sober conversation with these people for one second longer. You now remember why you hate Parents’ Weekend.
You decline dessert and convince your dad that he doesn’t need to walk you back to your house. You say it’s because you’re “a big girl now.” The hot pink underwear that’s been giving you a wedgie all night say it’s because you’re not actually going home right now. But whatever, he obviously doesn’t need to know that. You tell your parents you’ll see them at the football game tomorrow.
The next thing you hear is your alarm going off. You contemplate throwing your phone at the wall and then bitching out your roommate for her sick joke, because who the hell gets up at six fucking thirty in the morning, but then you remember: it’s football season. Oh, I get up at six fucking thirty in the morning. As you stumble out of bed, you vaguely remember yelling into the toilet last night that you were neverrrr drinking again. You now choose to ignore that weaker version of yourself.
You’ve somehow managed to get dressed, and contemplate the possibility of putting something in your stomach besides vodka and…vodka, when you remember you’re supposed to meet your parents at their tailgate. Where they have food. Not just beer. Yay! You now remember why you love Parents’ Weekend.
You arrive at their tailgate, and nearly cry at the sight of all the food. Now that your stomach has stopped hating you for everything you did last night, you can even drink some coffee. Oooh, Starbucks. Daddy does love me. You’re eating, mingling, taking pictures with your mom, and thinking just how responsible, mature, and awesome you are when you realize the game starts in two hours. And you’re once again sober. “Thanks soooo much for everything you guys, but I’m going to go meet a few friends now! Heart you!”
Here’s where things begin to go downhill. You OBVIOUSLY have to play catch up, because Becky’s already dancing on some table and is that Emily talking to Trey over there? That Bitch. So in order to get to the level of drunkenness that you’ve decided is acceptable for football (but that any doctor would most likeley consider alcohol poisoning) you resolve you must must must double fist with your drinks. Weird, as it turns out chugging beer and mimosas for two hours isn’t the best idea. Who knew?
So now you’re just a leeettle too drunk (okay, you’re hammed) at some bar pretending to watch the game because you decided going to the actual game was a total bore, and you could keep drinking at the bar. You spot Trey and you’re totes going to go talk to him, maybe even about how responsible you were this morning…when suddenly it’s 4 PM and you’re throwing up in the bushes outside your house. Oopsie! You win this round, brownouts.
Well, champ, you smell like Natty, are pretty sure you have vom in your hair, and are literally, 100% sure you’re going to die. If you’re mother doesn’t kill you first, because you’re supposed to meet her for dinner in three hours. And here’s where you shine, because a seasoned tailgater like yourself doesn’t let a little vom-in-the-hair get you down. You take a quick nap, shower (yep, that was definitely vom in your hair), and check the score of the game, so you can be like, soooo informed when discussing the outcome of a game you never attended, pulling off the perfect nap and
rally look-like-a-functionable-member-of-society-to-your-parents. God, you’re like the best daughter ever. No wonder they love you.