[Editor's note: I've made reference before to how I might be the oldest 23-year-old that I know. Don't get me wrong, I've lived a lot and I still have a lot of fun. I just peaked early. This is that story.]I used to live here. It's called The Paramount and proudly displays the tagline:
luxury living on the gardens.
Based on my experience, I would suggest they change it to something along the lines of: epic beacon of financially-, morally-, and physically-crippling train-wreckery.
We moved in the day after construction was completed
(ish). Four of us split a three bedroom, two-and-a-half bathroom apartment. Thanks to the couple who were happy to share the suite, it was just as affordable as any other place. Our apartment was huge, wonderful, brand new and all ours. Not to mention that walking out the main courtyard meant coming face to face with the city's beautiful Public Gardens.
And that was nice for the first day. After that, it was all about the left-hand turn that brought you to the height of debauchery in less than thirty paces. Sure, Halifax is small but we reportedly have the most bars per capita in Canada. The first two structures built here in the 1800s were a church and a pub (according to the
Harbour Hopper tour-guides, clearly historians).
From my apartment, I could be at a bar within 90 seconds. And I often was.
[As a result, I know that Martini Mondays are at The Fireside and The Bitter End while it's Mojito Mondays at Onyx (which has Martini night on Tuesday while The Bitter End saves its Mojitos for Sunday). Miss the first part of the week? No problem, cheap Martini night is Thursday at Niche, or two dolla holla at The Dome if you're into that sort of thing.]I worked at a fancy shoe store on the main drag while my roommate worked as the hostess at our favourite restaurant three blocks down. Every day I'd walk in my $300 shoes
(yes, oddly enough they exist for men) to and from work, passing three martini bars, four pubs, one sports bar, two liquor stores and dozens of high-end shops before popping in to grab a $25 bite while she finished up her shift.
Despite cheap rent, our bank accounts were frequently raped by the nightlife.
But I loved it. Almost every second of it. For once, I was living in a hub of activity and fun.
(My university was small, professional and off the beaten path so I lacked that exciting party-school experience.) I was ready to soak it all up. Having the largest and nicest apartment, not to mention the most central location, ours became the party place. Not kegger, throw-up-on-the-floor parties, but dress up nice and drink loads of martinis parties.
See, when you're slurring drunk at these, it's CLASSY. When you and your friends are using tragic tails of horrible sex to entertain your parents and their colleagues, it's CLASSY. When you brake a lamp from dancing around to
Jump On It by Sir Mix-a-lot, it's CLASSY. When you think that someone might be having sex in your powder room, it's CLASSY.
This was made worse by the phenomenon that Halifax officials like to call a Cabaret license. Contrary to popular belief, this has very little to do with Liza and a lot more to do with letting select bars serve dollar shots until 3:30am. That means that when you throw a party, it doesn't start until 11pm. Then the goal is to get good and loaded before heading to the club (you wouldn't be caught dead anywhere before 12:30am). That also means that when you don't get home until 4:30-5am, there is no damn way you're going to be sober by morning.
I remember chasing shots of Jack Daniels with more Jack Daniels to impress the army guys. I remember my bartender friends making all types of martinis for public consumption. I remember the frequent mid-party trips to go pick up more booze and ice.
I also remember spending my 21st birthday in bed until 6:30pm because moving made me dry-heave and
waking up three times without having a clue how I got home, having to map out my route later that evening based on what fast food wrappers were in the garbage.
I remember realizing that my priorities had gotten entirely out of whack, that I had indeed become caught up with "the wrong crowd", that I didn't have a dime to show for a lot of hard work, that I was spending what money I DID have on throwing parties rather than buying groceries (I weighed a whopping 125lbs), and that I what I was doing was actually quite ridiculous.
You know those cool people that are always at the club every week? The ones that were older than me to begin with? Yeah. From what I hear, they're still there twice a week, every week, two years later. Pushing 35 years old.
I've graduated, bought a house, adopted a dog, started a career, with more big changes around the corner no doubt.
They're still dancing at four in the morning.
Yeah, I'm only 23 but bring on the damn 'burbs. I'm getting too old for that mess.
While everyone and their dog are slapping on stilettos and ordering cosmos before hitting the Sex and the City flick, I am trying to psych myself up for a night out. As I've been explaining this week, I am old. OLD and boring. I'm trying to dust off the cobwebs from winter and make the trek downtown to celebrate my Mojo's birthday and graduation.
