"Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children." - George Bernard Shaw

So last weekend, I was coming back from the laundry room. It was Friday night and as there are a lot of younger people who live in our apartment complex, there were a handful of parties going on around me. There were at least two across the way and two down our side of the building. Lots of noise, music, yelling, but nothing warranting annoyance on my part.

When I say younger, I mean early 20s. Younger than me. Even though I've been out of my "early 20s" for five or so years, it never fails to freak me out that there are kids I babysat out at the bar on the weekends, all legal and whatnot. My friend from high school's little brother and his girlfriend (wife? H? I'm not clear on that situation - clarification would be great!) just had a baby. I babysat him when I was 16!! All three of my little cousins have graduated high school, one's in college...and I babysat them when I was 13.

Who hit the FF button on my birthday clock???

So anyway, I'm watching a pair of girls walk up the steps to an upstairs apartment and be let in by a guy who was clearly hosting the party. There was music, laughter, people drinking beer. You know, the party scene. Surely you remember it??? The apartment's like a sardine can. You're wearing your best party clothes - slightly-too-tight jeans, solid-color t-shirt that's probably a v-neck to accentuate the girls, makeup, your hair done for the first time all week (no ponytails!), and a brand new pack of smokes. You didn't smoke? Okay, well, I did. And I liked it. I looked cool, dammit.

As I'm watching these two girls go inside, I get all nostalgic for my college days. If I was invited to a party, I was going come hell or high water. I was constantly badgering my girls or dormmates to go with me - I was not one to travel solo - and could not wait to get there. I loved drinking, I loved dancing, I loved beer pong (and if you ask my sophomore roommate, I wasn't too shabby at it either), and I loved being out and about. I even loved the hangover breakfasts at the dining hall: Belgian waffle with strawberries and whipped cream, bacon, and some sort of soda. Sorry, where I come from, I had POP for breakfast.

Then I met Hubby at the advent of my senior year in college and within six months or so, I'd settled down. I didn't want to go to party after party, I didn't even want to go to the local bar. It's not that I was opposed to drinking or anything, I just didn't have the urge to be a part of that scene. I felt like I'd moved on from it and didn't see a need to go back.

I still don't miss it, not really. But in that moment, walking around in my I'm-doing-laundry clothes and flip flops and watching those girls get their party on, I was very much longing to let my hair down. I expressed this sentiment to Hubby when I went inside. I told him that I briefly entertained the idea that I could still fit in at a party, I could still be fun and loud and rowdy. Then I realized that I wouldn't know what the hell to do with myself at a party! I haven't partied since mid-2001. Well, I had a little alcohol-laden soiree in December of that year, but it didn't last long because the alcohol was ingested rather quickly!

I'd be a wallflower like no other. Back up against the wall, nursing a beer, not smoking because I quit in 2004, and being scared to talk to anyone because all my life consists of anymore is parenting!! My life is diapers, formula, Dora the Explorer and getting to bed at a decent hour because I know I'm getting up at 5:30 a.m. Who wants to converse with that ball of boring?

Don't get me wrong: I love my life! And 99.9% of the time, I'm blissfully happy with where I am. But I occasionally wonder what happened to my wild side? Is it sleeping? Tucked away in a box in a closet? Did it die?