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Crashing a Kegger: A Journey Through Nostalgia
I’ve been toying with the idea of crashing a kegger. Picture this: it’s a sunny Saturday afternoon in late October, and I’m strolling through campus around 4 PM. Everywhere I look, fraternity guys are celebrating the end of Spring Fling weekend, their front yards lined with kegs of beer. I’ve always had a soft spot for keg beer; it has this unique taste, almost like it’s been filtered through spilled memories.
Groups of guys are scattered about—jocks, nerds, and those classic party types. Some are in crisp button-downs, while others sport grungy tees and flannel shirts—definitely my vibe. So, yeah, the thought of grabbing a cold one with a cute guy crossed my mind. But here’s the catch: I could easily be the mother of one of these boys. Not that I am, but still, the math adds up disturbingly well. Technically, I’m old enough to have a kid in college. I was a late bloomer, after all, so it’s not entirely impossible.
Later, when I brought this up with a friend, she got caught up on what I like to call the “mother-son differential.” We wondered why it seems to bother women more than men. Maybe it’s because we women see those young men as potential sons—literally. You can understand why that might make us hesitate. But oddly enough, that wasn’t what stopped me from heading into the kegger. At that moment, I didn’t feel like anyone’s mother; I just wanted to share a beer with a good-looking guy. Sure, I’m a mom of two, but let’s pretend for a moment that I’m not, or that I’ve sent my kids off to a farm for being a little too wild.
The real dilemma? I wasn’t entirely confident I could pull it off. I mean, I don’t exactly look 19. I won’t disclose my age (Homecoming is still on my agenda), but let’s just say I’ve got a few eye crinkles and some dark circles that no amount of concealer can hide. My chin isn’t what it used to be, but on the bright side, my outfit was on point—jeans, a cool untucked shirt, leather jacket, and a backpack. No gray hair thanks to a little help from Clairol, and my family has a reputation for looking younger than we are. So maybe there was a glimmer of hope?
Just to clarify, I wasn’t slumming around campus. I was there for a panel on nonfiction writing, but I had some time to kill, so I took a walk. In hindsight, maybe I should rethink my “free pass” scenario. Right now, it’s Eddie Vedder or Clive Owen, but I’m starting to think maybe it should be a college guy in a flannel shirt at 5:30 PM during Homecoming. You know, the whole setup: unmade futon, Warren Zevon playing, a sweatband on the doorknob warning off roommates. Sounds kind of fun, doesn’t it?
This leads me to an epiphany—I think I finally grasp why some men chase after significantly younger partners. It’s not about feeling young; it’s about reliving those primal urges that never really fade. You don’t think, “Oh, I’m 45 and she’s half my age,” but rather, “I want her.” You see that young woman and suddenly you’re that awkward teenager again, filled with desire and hope. And now, with the confidence that comes with age, you can actually act on it.
In short, when we see something that reminds us of our youth, it ignites a mix of nostalgia and desire. We long to experience that exhilarating rush of youthful passions again. Another guilty pleasure of mine is driving around my hometown with my husband, pretending he’s the high school boyfriend I never had. These feelings aren’t about wanting to have an affair with a college athlete; they’re just reflections of those youthful days that linger on.
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To summarize, thinking about that kegger made me realize how our youthful desires never quite leave us, no matter our age. It’s a blend of nostalgia and hope that keeps us young at heart.