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On any given
weekend, Isla Vista is dotted with some of the
best themed parties I’ve ever encountered. From
glitzy cocktail soirees to grungy rock star
bashes, UCSB tops the list when it comes to going
all out — because as we all know, no one rocks a
costume like a Gaucho does.
But there is one type of party missing from
college life here, one that long ago proved vital
to my sanity and perhaps holds the key to piercing
through the tension of our troubled, angst-ridden
lives: the slumber party.
Thanks to the porn industry, the idea has lost its
innocence, the thought clouding the average I.V.
resident with naughty visions of hot female coeds
with pigtails and marabou-trimmed negligees
succumbing to their long-suppressed bi-curious
fantasies. But if some of us females rewind about
eight years or so, we might recall when a typical
Friday night with the girls entailed endearingly
botched attempts at making each other over,
giggling until root beer inevitably spewed from
some facial orifice and catching a round of “Boy
Meets World” on TGIF because the kid who played
Shawn was oh-so-hot.
Now I get a kick out of the naughty stuff as much
as the next person, but man, were those nights of
G-rated girly mischief fun. How awesome was it to
stay in with our closest friends, bake brownies
that weren’t laced with some illegal substance and
not have the dark cloud of finals, hangovers and
broken hearts looming over our sheltered,
underdeveloped minds? Though I spent half my
adolescence with stars in my eyes thinking how
great life would be at 20, I can safely say that
being a woman has kicked me in the ass a hell of a
lot more than getting rejected by that cute boy
from sixth grade summer camp ever did.
I don’t doubt that the grown-up version of the
teenage slumber party
exists: Enter the “Sex and the City” marathon,
complete with this month’s stack of Us Weeklys and
several rounds of cosmopolitans. But it’s just not
the same. When you have people leaving the room
every time a booty call hits up the cell, your
best friend puking in the bathroom because she had
one-too-many cocktails and the hostess’ roommate
screaming through the walls to keep it the fuck
down, the magic of the evening can’t help but
dissipate sooner or later.
And I guess that’s what makes me a little
nostalgic of ages past — bad hair, curfews, braces
and all. Maybe we were young and stupid, but
somehow stumbling plastered down Sabado Tarde Road
just doesn’t beat letting your girlfriend paint
your nails baby pink while the two of you gush
over Leonardo DiCaprio.
So as much as I.V. living has given me plenty to
be thankful for, I would add slumber parties,
along with adequate parking, cheap rent and a
full-blown spa, onto the list of things missing
from my favorite seaside town. In the midst of so
much chaos, I think we could all inject a little
G-rated girly mischief into our lives.
Well, my pajamas are certainly ready… are yours?
Daily Nexus opinion editor Meghan Palma wants to
keep it G-rated, but that won’t stop her from
rocking pigtails and that marabou-trimmed negligee
at her next sleepover. |
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