The day of my 21st birthday I received a phone call from my dad. After quickly wishing me a happy birthday he began listing rules I must abide by … or else.
The list began simply enough: no getting arrested. I figured there was no way I could get arrested within 24 hours of one of my friends. That would just be too “Real World: San Diego.”
Next was no fighting. This one, though simple to some, proved more difficult considering the Herald-Cardinal football game fell on the same day.
When I told him this, as a sort of plea for an exception to the rule, he threatened to come to Madison and chaperone for the weekend. Some might ask, why was he so worried? The reason being, six months ago, during the Herald-Cardinal softball game, (which is seemingly less violent than football) I was involved in somewhat of a fight with a player from the opposing team.
One broken hand and three days later, I was on the phone with my dad trying to explain, that no, I was not that drunk when it happened and that yes, we won the game. He thought it was somewhat amusing until I told him I would be spending every Wednesday for the next four months in hand therapy, where I would practice bending my fingers and squeezing sponges.
As he reminded me of all of this, I decided that maybe I should sit the football game out, since I do not want any more crooked fingers. He continued with the rules and made me repeat them back to him after he was finished. I promised, in between my first legal sips of beer, I would adhere to his rules. Right before he hung up the phone though, he asked a rather interesting question: What was I going to do with all my fake ids?
I forgot turning 21 meant saying goodbye to my four pseudonyms, who got me into bars the last two years. As I started emptying my purse of the girls I never knew (except, of course, their addresses and zodiac signs) I began thinking about how much I will miss making up stories about Rocio, Kimberly, Becca and Melissa. I no longer have to make small talk with the bar staff regarding obscure places in Indiana that I have never heard of, only to find out the bartender’s girlfriend is from that same town. I will never again have to use my Copps card as a second form of identification.
But I will never again get the high I get when I walk into a bar posing as a 27-year-old Spanish-speaking Minnesotan.
Chugging Gatorade, icing my ankle and putting band-aids on my wounds the day after my birthday, my dad called to see how it all went. When I told him what I was doing just then, I had to assure him that, no I did not play in the football game, it was just a crazy night, and that I followed all the rules.
When I go to the liquor store next, I am going to feel bad, because I really think I had the employees fooled and they liked learning Spanish. And when I go to the bars, I am just going to have to talk about the city I am actually from. And I suppose I will take the Copps card out of the mix as well.
Joanna Salmen ([email protected]) is a junior majoring in journalism and Spanish.
