StreetWorthy

Vicki's Story About Drinking and Working (Not Simultaneously) Which Currently Has No Title

"Work is the curse of the drinking class." - Oscar Wilde What's the harm of starting a night of drinking with wine, throwing some dubiously-titled "jungle juice" into the mix, and ending things with a few shots of Captain Morgan? Why not chase those shots with samples of your roommate's boyfriend's PBR? "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't," you might slur, pointing your finger accusingly. Of course, there are several reasons why you shouldn't, and they all come heaving out of you as you drape yourself over the toilet that night, and then in a Denny's bathroom the next day.

Note: the author is not an alcoholic. Neither are her friends, many of whom engage in similar activities with achingly similar consequences. We are all in our early twenties and, having spent our college years partying and testing our limits with such lessons as "beer before liquor," we should be older and wiser. So why do so many of us spend our weekends drinking when the aftermath, which we are well-familiar with, can be so icky? One reason might be because we all have, or have had at some point, full-time office jobs. This may seem like a ridiculous conclusion to arrive at, but think about the earth-shattering lessons learned at your first office job. I'm not talking about those tricky Microsoft Office applications, either. My friends and I have come to know the endless 9-5 days, experiencing hours upon hours of monotonous tasks and the loss of our youthful hearts to the blue glare of computer screens. Once you've had that first full-time office job experience, you live for the weekend in a way that is significantly different than the "It's the freakin' weekend!" mantra of past school days. It becomes vital to surviving Monday through Friday and, when that doesn't suffice, it's always happy hour somewhere.

I argue that it's more difficult to have an office job at this age than any other time in your life. Our generation in particular was brought up to believe that we can become whoever we want in life (thanks a lot, Mom and Dad). We go to college and major in subjects like Ancient Greek Literature and Community Studies. One of my more adventurous friends doubled in philosophy and electronic music. Well-intentioned family members and acquaintances ask, "So what are you gonna do with that?" We chuckle nervously and reply, "What aren't we going to do?" Flash forward to a year after graduating and the answer starts to seem more like, "Well, possibly not much."

I graduated college with a clear image in my head of what I wanted to become. Turns out open positions for creative writers in glamorous cities are few and far between (not to mention competitive as hell). Like so many of us, I moved back into my childhood home and accepted the first job offered to me: co-receptionist at an engineering firm. That's right, there was another receptionist, and her seniority meant that I had to answer to her and every other person in the office. I was the lowest rung on the ladder and there was no possibility of advancement, not unless I wanted to go back to school for civil engineering � hah! My college degree and areas of academic expertise didn't matter; people were only interested in whether or not I could fix the jammed copier. My love of writing was wasted on crafting office-wide emails reminding fellow employees about recycling on Thursdays and asking them (in vain) to please not throw boxes and garbage into empty offices and cubicles. Guess who had to clean them out! The phone rang incessantly, to the point where I often felt just one ring away from the brink of sanity. I knew it was time to go when I started answering my cell phone, "Carollo Engineers, this is Vicki!" That, and my supervisor asked me to start washing the dishes that lazy engineers left in the sink. Wash the dishes?! I have a degree.

It's extremely difficult and unnerving to go from an intellectually-stimulating environment to a place in which typing speeds and filing capabilities are valued over IQ. As young adults, we have spent the majority of our years defined by our status as students, by our scholarly pursuits. What happens when that stage in our lives ends and we begin to feel defined by vapid office jobs instead?

If you spend 8 hours a day, five days a week doing anything, it's bound to become a huge part of your existence. Conversations over lunch breaks revolve around particularly hilarious or devastating parts of the work day. My friends and I like to play a game called "Whose co-worker is worse today?" which basically means that we spend way too much time on the phone discussing the various injustices experienced at the hands of our office nemeses. "She asked me to make a single copy of a two-page document!" "Well, he keeps taking the fucking pens off of my desk!" These share sessions usually end in a declarative statement along the lines of "I gotta get another job!" followed by an even more boldly declared "Man, we need to go out this weekend." Not going out on the weekends has become completely unacceptable. It's like having a warm, delicious chocolate chip cookie presented to you after a disappointing dinner and not consuming every gooey bite. You just don't do it. You can't do it. It's the weekend!

Drinking during the formative years of college is all about testing boundaries and declaring newfound independence. Certainly drinking in one's twenties can be a celebration of good friends and good times, but I believe that something more lies beneath: twinges of anxiety about the future, a need to rebel against the adult status thrust upon us during the week a role few of us feel prepared for. Those of us in our twenties remember seemingly carefree school days, and we are constantly confronted with a grim future of gossipy coworkers, "secretary spread" (you know what I'm talking about), and transferring our excitement for random Tequila Tuesdays to Potluck Wednesdays. So we hit up the bars, throw wild parties, and spend our weekends attempting to replace the week's dull work memories with fun-filled, shiny new ones.

Flashback to two weekends ago, Saturday night around 11 p.m. at my friend's party in Daly City. Many of us have consumed a few too many drinks. Shots, which I had previously sworn off the weekend before, have been taken with gusto. This could be a scene from my dorm room five years ago (oh my god, five years ago?!), yet something is profoundly different. Each shot is taken with a similar youthful enthusiasm, but, instead of toasting to the end of finals or "that hot guy on the third floor," we toast to our futures. "Here's to us in the big city!" my roommate exclaims, spilling a few drops of Stoli onto our hands as he crashes his shot glass into mine. Our tongues loosened by libations, we freely discuss career goals instead of rumors, speculating on who we will one day become, the success that must be right around the corner from the hardships of the present.

"I know I've got what it takes to be a graphic designer," this guy next to me shares. "I know I can make a living out of it if I just had a few good connections. But I walk into an interview and they take one look at my lack of experience and I'm done. Shake my hand, promise to call, yada yada. I feel so cheap." A look of rage suddenly fills his face as his eyes dart around the kitchen counter. "Dammit, who drank the last of my Captain Morgan?"

"Oh, I know. If I hear 'Oh, I'll let you know one way or another' during an interview one more time I'm going to lose my fucking mind. Why even say it? Just tell me the truth, you know?" my friend exclaims, swirling her drink intensely.

"These people have all of the power and it just kills me. When I'm a contributing editor for The New Yorker, I'll wield my power benevolently. I'll recognize a struggling artist with all of the potential and motivation in the world and give her a chance!" someone else cries, gesturing wildly. We all nod earnestly, talking above each other, airing our grievances and hopes to the steady lull of James Brown singing in the background.

It was at this particular party, surrounded by laughter and blaring music, lost in a haze of alcohol and familiar faces, that I began to see things more clearly. It's scary how badly we all want to find happiness in our careers, and it is only under the protection of alcohol that we can let that vulnerability shine rather than shadowing it with jokes and dramatic gestures. We speak intently, earnestly and, perhaps most importantly, confidently of our dreams.

Alcohol has always been a form of escape, but I think that what you need to escape from changes as we age. Escaping the insecurity of adolescence invariably turns into escaping the apathy of the work place. Granted, not everybody chooses to escape through chemically-altering methods; that's just the method that some people (read: many people) stumble across. It's not always a descent into the dark void of alcoholism. Sometimes it's just about unwinding with friends and finding the way back to our true selves, the ones that get lost in the dead-ends and frustrations of weekday office jobs. At least, that's what I always tell myself the morning after.