As we age, we start to realize that our definition of “fun” begins to evolve a little bit.
And I have realized how depressing it is that many of my philosophical musings begin with the line, ” As we age…” I guess an increase in usage of that phrase is also indicative of aging, but that’s neither here nor there.
Anyway, what I mean is that we spend our Friday and Saturday nights a little differently in our mid-to-late 20s than we did in our teenage years, and even early 20s. That’s obvious. I’m not necessarily saying that our idea of what is “fun” changes, I just mean it evolves. Like all things.
For example, if you and your friends like to go out and drink, then maybe when you were all 21, you’d start pregaming hard at 8 p.m., and then hit a nightclub at 10:30 and stay out until the next morning.
But five, six or seven years later, you’re more likely to meet those same friends at a low-key pub for dinner and drinks, maybe stick around to watch a game and drink some more, and then part ways and go home at around 11 p.m.
And that’s fine. I have no problem with that. In fact, I actually enjoy that. Again, it’s all part of the maturation process. It’s not like our lives become boring and we hate it — it’s that our lives become a little more refined and civilized, and we enjoy the elegant nature of such undertakings.
That’s what I mean when I say our idea of what is “fun” changes. It can be interpreted as boring and dull by some, but to us, we still get as much joy and pleasure out of such events, and thus, we still have fun.
But, that all being said, never — in a million years — will I ever associate the words “fun” and “potluck” in the same sentence. Nothing in this entire universe could be less enticing to me than the prospect of ever attending a potluck.
I remember one time my friend told me that she hosted a “painting party,” which apparently consists of inviting friends over to repaint your walls, and drinking alcohol while you do it. Even that sounds like an absolute blast compared to a potluck.
I suppose the thrill of a potluck is for people to gather in a room and bring their own food specialties with them. All the food gets laid out on a table, and then the guests are able to sample one another’s food, share recipes, and drink alcohol and socialize. And 99.9 percent of the time, they are hosted by women.
Now I’m not saying that potlucks are absolutely terrible ideas. Quite the contrary. In fact, when I first learned what a potluck was, I actually became intrigued. I thought it seemed like a unique party-theme. Like an 80s party. Or a black-and-white party. At the end of the day, they are just excuses to get people together and drink. Nothing wrong with that. I certainly don’t object.
But then I started to become aware of how often people throw potlucks. This wasn’t just a theme anymore. It’s actually a recurring thing. It’s not an excuse to get people together and drink. In fact, it’s the complete opposite. Drinking is actually the excuse for people to get together and discuss finer foods, art, culture and literature.
In other words, it’s an absolute nightmare.
I like gathering with friends, meeting new people, and consuming alcohol as much as the next guy. but I don’t need to be lured by an array of chocolate chip brownies, soy muffins and fruit salad in order to have a good time. Potlucks make everybody pretentious, judgmental and self-aware. I actually judge myself at a potluck. I convince myself that I’m not acting sophisticated enough.
And I haven’t even brought out the biggest reason as to why I dislike such an event. I don’t cook. And no I’m not saying I can’t cook. I’m saying that I choose not to cook. It’s too time-consuming and laborious. If I ever want to learn how to combine different ingredients to turn it into one finished product, I’d rather cook crystal meth than potato latkes.
So, for all of those reasons, I’ve basically all but sworn off the prospect of ever attending a potluck in my life.
Pretty much every single person I know except for one would have to be on vacation (or dead) one weekend, and that one person would have to be having a potluck that very same weekend — and have a lot of hot female friends — for me to ever attend.
And hey, if all but one of my friends just suddenly died, I guess that would give me a good icebreaker at the party to use on girls.