(UM, MY Saturday night kinda sucked, so let’s talk about Friday night, okay? Cool.) It’s 7 p.m. on Friday night and the temperature is 75 degrees. Fucking fantastic. Is there really anything better than that first warm weekend night after a long, cold winter? The car windows go down, the skirts climb up, and the annual migration of ill-suited financial dudes, with Blackberries holstered to their hips, makes its way from office buildings across Atlantic Avenue, looking to mate at Tia’s. Ah yes, it must be springtime in Boston: Red Sox baseball, afternoon buzzes on Newbury Street, and the unavoidable return of at least $300 worth of street-cleaning parking violations.
Tonight I’ve decided I’m going to take a much more adult approach to my warm-weather celebration. I’m going to skip the Barking Crab and leave the Tavern on the Water alone. Instead, I’m going to have a couple of friends over for a sit-down roof-deck barbecue and a few glasses of wine. I have to admit, I’m quite proud of myself: I think I may finally be growing up. I mean, a few years ago, a night with weather like this would have found me swilling Corona at the busiest outdoor bar in town, but now I’m pairing wines with food while discussing the candidates for the Democratic nomination. That’s an improvement, right? I mean, I shouldn’t still want to chug cervezas with scantily-clad patio bimbos, right? Okay, I’ll take your word on it.
My guests arrive, and with them the night’s desired maturity level. Healthy snacks are being enjoyed on the deck, cool dinner music is being played in the background, and our second glasses of wine are being poured in the kitchen. We’re cruising along, in total control of our adult evening, and then someone has to screw it all up by asking, “Does anyone want to get high?”
I think about it for a brief moment, imagining sophisticated, deep conversation about creative ideas and that feeling of relaxation that can only be achieved with a joint and a few good friends. Sure, why not? Cut to 20 minutes later: the wine has magically turned into tequila, the dinner music has been replaced by an ill-advised iTunes download of Britney Spears’s new album, and I’m standing over the grill obsessing about cooking speed and probably at risk of lighting myself on fire.
After some mildly embarrassing living-room dancing and an unnecessary “shot to usher in the good weather,” we reel it in a bit and actually manage to sit down to eat. But the small moment of restraint only leads to more immaturity. One of my friends actually becomes paranoid and develops a fear of the grilled asparagus. Another person is laughing so hard she can’t even eat, which results in a third friend nearly needing the Heimlich to dislodge a rogue beet. And me? I’m huddled in the corner with a huge plate of random meats, looking like a mountain lion afraid that other animals will try to steal my kill.
So what can I say? We gave it a shot. I guess you really do have to learn to crawl before you can walk. It’s a fitting analogy for this extremely fun but unsuccessful evening that I’m certain will have most of us on our hands and knees by night’s end.
