It’s a strange time in the social year. By all means, January should have been a time of joy, a time of excess, a time to peer pressure your friends into doing keg stands. It was the beginning of a new year, a new semester, and new opportunities. Unfortunately, it was also really really cold. Granted, not as cold as years past and arguably not as cold as it was in December, but it was still cold. And cold weather has always been the death of the dance party.
There are, traditionally, several methods for coping with coldweather weekends. You could, of course, forgo the coat, dress in your finest party wear, and run for your life to the nearest wood frame house playing loud music, hoping to find a party before you contract the flu, pneumonia, or tuberculosis. Another way is to show up at parties with big bulky coats on. But then you are faced with a rather difficult choice: do you wear the coat all night and generally look like a giant marshmallow that nobody really wants to talk to, or do you put the coat down on a chair, table, or bed and allow someone who has arrived at the party without a coat (see: Option #1) to take your coat thus leaving you coatless (see: Option #1). There is, of course, the RIDE, but ever since the RIDE changed their “personal chauffeur” policy to a “poorly-run bus system” policy, you have to stand in some poorly-lit parking lot or street corner for it to come. This doesn’t do much to solve the coat/no coat dilemma. And to be honest, you can probably walk faster anyway. The final option is to sit at home and drink yourself silly while watching the four-part A&E documentary series on the history of the Plaines Indians that you had Net-Flixed the last time you were drunk.
I don’t think it’s incredibly presumptuous to assume that most people choose a variation on that last option. And don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with the life of a hermit. I’m all for it sometimes. Really, this is all just a loss for the party crowd. But there is something more, something that we’re all missing out on now: party friends. Those people you see only at parties, those people who, after a few drinks, you treat like you’re old friends. Maybe you used to have a class together, or a mutual friend. Maybe you just like talking to them. Whatever the case may be, they’re those people you hang out with for one or two nights a week and never think of otherwise. This is what we’re missing.
Now hear me out on this.
I have an analogy I like to use when talking about what exactly a party friend is. It involves the giant cube that sits next to the Astor Place subway station in New York City. Party friends are exactly like the people you meet when you decide to start spinning that cube. It’s really too heavy for anyone to really move on their own. Chances are, if you want to spin that cube, you’re going to need some help. You’re going to need to convince a total stranger to help you. Now, sometimes, the people near the cube won’t believe you when you tell them to start pushing. Often, they’re tourists thinking you’re a local playing a joke on them. Sometimes, they know the trick. Invariably, someone’s going to help you. And then there will be that moment when you’re all pushing, but nothing is happening. Suddenly, the cube will start to spin and everyone will start cheering. There is this weird momentary connection between you and these complete strangers. You’re having fun with people you’ve never met before. And then it’s over. If you see them walking down the block a minute later, neither one of you will acknowledge what just happened. It’s a freak phenomenon, a temporary connection isolated in a certain time and a certain place.
What I like about cube friends is the same thing I like about party friends. They help make the world seem smaller and a little nicer. Whether you’re talking about a big city like Manhattan, or a tiny suburban campus like Wesleyan, it’s still the same idea. You feel a part of something larger than your normal day. The world shrinks and becomes manageable. Everyone around you is your friend. Granted it’s not a permanent fix for your problems, just a temporary cure for ennui, but it seems important nonetheless. And maybe this is part of the reason why everyone seems so down in the winter. This sense of community, this sense of opportunity, these friends you’ve just met and will probably only see again next weekend, it’s all gone. As my girlfriend said the other day, it seems like everyone’s gone into hibernation.
And I guess there’s no easy solution for this, no cure for second-semester hibernation. But the least we can all do is say hello to our party friends when we see them around campus. A simple nod will do. Because come spring, we’re all going to realize how much we missed each other.
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