So, this weekend I didn’t get up to much reading. And by not much, I mean none. But, I am no longer a Jersey Shore virgin. Far from it. Never again will I stare blankly at the pages of US weekly and ask ‘Who the hell is Snooki?’ In fact, I now know her very well.
The circumstances of this deflowering were rare. After a very fun night of distilled clear liquids and plenty of Eminem, a small group of 30-somethings found themselves hung over. This in itself is not unusual.
Here it is: We were hungover with all our children being cared for by others. Hungover in a big house with a stocked fridge owned by parents. Parents who are in Europe.
We seized the opportunity. We reverted to our 21-year-old selves.
Yes, the sun was shining for the first time in months, but no, we did not go outside.
Instead, we loafed. We ate pizza and chips. We searched the house for Gatorade. We fought over who was going to walk to the corner store. A group of men our age biked by in spandex. We couldn’t possibly imagine why they were doing that.
We watched Jersey Shore. So much Jersey Shore. It was a marathon.
Episode after episode, I feigned disgust at the orange skin, the fake nails and the cheesy dudes. Truth be told, I was struggling to follow. Distinguishing Deena from Sammi Sweetheart is intellectually taxing, I assure you. I couldn’t quite grasp their unique dialect. I kept asking questions like “Is she with Ronnie or Mike the Situation?” and “Who’s house is that?”
We hung on as long as we could. By late afternoon, children needed to be picked up. The dog was begging for a walk. I had to get some groceries. Someone else was going to Home Depot.
My eyes recoiled in the daylight as I headed out.
At Carrot Common, I thought to myself, Snooki wouldn’t be caught dead in here.
And she would think I was really pale.