Flashback: It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. The year was 2007. The place, here. And two newly sororitized girls awoke in a haze. Where specifically they were, we cannot say, and whence specifically they were, we cannot say either. Except that it was a Tuesday morning, they were outdoors (?) and sobriety managed to elude them. Nothing new. Those days it was drunk on the reg, yachts on the reg, poppin’ caps on the reg, stealin’ cars on the reg, run-on sentences on the reg …

R: that’s enough.

But really. They arose from their stupor (and from their stoop) ready to do it again the next night. And the next night. And the night after that. And then a Sunday came, and everyone was like, “Guys come on, it’s the Lord’s Day” and they were forced to rest. And they saw that it was sad. But it was ok, because a Monday always came, and they could begin gallivanting anew.

You might be shocked and appalled to discover that you all know these foolish hooligans, because in fact, these fool-igans were we! That’s right. We. Were. Awesome.

R: Legen—

R: —dary.

But, sadly, those days are no more. One day, without any warning, we just weren’t so legendary. We began to wake up in beds, showered, our teeth brushed, and most disturbingly, totally sober. As Wordsworth once wrote, and R’s dad has often said, “What through the radiance which was once so bright, be now for ever taken from my sight, though nothing can bring back the hour of splendour in the grass.”

R: Word up Wordsworth.

And the radiance only continued to fade, until one day we found ourselves on the couch. Having watched ten straight hours of procedural dramas, again, amidst a sea of cobwebs with empty Hostess packages stretching beyond the horizon, we were forced to acknowledge that the living room had become our tomb, in what was quickly becoming a chilling re-telling of Grey Gardens. (Minus all the animals).

Enough was enough. We weren’t gonna go out like those Bealeses. We were gonna show the world that we weren’t lamies!

R: But we got rid of our beards!

R: Not LADIES, dummy! LAME-IES.

And so we pledged to revisit the golden days, and become awesome yet again.

R: Legendary

R: -er.

Thus began our personal-re-creation, if you will. For seven days and nights, we sought to reclaim our long lost spirit and vowed to once again go out every night. And we thought it would be good.

We commenced our mission on a Friday, or “Mischief Day,” as some would call it, and mischievous we were. As usual, Halloween weekend proved to be a solid showing. We danced our costume-y, spirited hearts out; one R got in everyone’s fucking way with her wingz while the other R spread her mysteriously wand-less magic.

R: Oh, you were a magician?

R: What did you think I was?

We were awesome, it was awesome, and our plan was beginning to seem like a success. We even started thinking maybe we could bring back the hour of splendour in the grass. What does Wordsworth know? Words? Well we know some words too. And so do a lot of other people, who don’t go around writing “poems.”

But we digress. We won’t lie. It was a little hard to get up on Monday morning. One R may have left for class with only one contact lens in, and the other R may have gone without her bra, again. There may have been diet coke all over her face, and a Halloween-sparkle-induced rash. But we soldiered on, and found new and jazzy ways to keep it awesome. Monday night we turned our attention towards more scholarly pursuits and dropped by Ruloffs for some karaoke. Let’s talk about who else dropped by!

First there was the guy sporting a periodic table sweat-suit who selected “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” for our listening pleasure. Then there was the dancer boy singing Weezer whose girlfriend kept requesting that he “show us [his] tits/dick.” We can’t be sure which. But he didn’t. Later she asked him to show his nipples. AND HE DID!

R: And we could see that it was gross.

And then there were the less successful performances. R’s notes on one in particular read: “Pussyvat dolls boys I’m sexy mad fucking depressing depressing.” These notes have not been checked for spelling, grammar or sobriety.

By Tuesday, drinking had become an increasingly daunting challenge. At Stella’s, both R’s forced down sips of white wine, beginning to feel like big pansy-ass pansies. And the week continued in this pansy fashion until Thursday, when one R got a little rowdy and did a striptease for all of Dino’s to see. *

R: ONE BUTTON CAME UNDONE!

And by Friday we were both sick. In the period of one week, we had become completely incapacitated, forcing us to finally admit the truth: we are olds. When we were your age, there was no drink too strong, no dress too short, no heel too high. No matter how messy we were, we were never embarrassed … we were free to be you and me. If there’s one thing we’ll miss as our now boring and serious selves, it’s that carefree freedom that comes along with not giving a fucking shit what anyone else thinks.

Maybe being “boring” and “serious” isn’t so bad anyway. We may not dance on tables anymore, but then again … we don’t dance on tables anymore. Maybe Wordworth was right after all. Olds usually are. And so, “we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.” Especially if what remains behind is good TV, good food and good times with really good friends. (And also maybe getting jobs and having lives!)

*Go to www.columnists-gone-wild.com for footage ;)