Jersey or Bust

Ahhhh, the fantastic paradise of New Jersey - the state were locals refer to highway exits when describing where they grew up. Jersey kind of stands alone when it comes to stigmas and stereotypes of states in this country. Though New Jersey does have more car theft shopping malls, and toxic waste dumps than any state in the country it would probably be unfair to pin stereotypes over the entire state - though I would certainly not like to carry the burden of "Jersey girl".

I actually visited this lovely state over the Labor Day weekend. My brother, four years younger than I, got himself a beach house for the latter part of the summer with several upstanding young gentlemen. In living in the land-locked mountains of Colorado, I thought it might be nice to spend some time with my brother and his friends while enjoying the scenery and lively night life of the Jersey shore. I thought I could "hang", but by the end of the weekend, I was barely hanging by the thread of my bathing suit.

I think my brother's friends are great guys and I do thoroughly enjoy "hangin'" when the opportunity presents itself, but man these folks like to party. And whatever partying I had remaining in my relatively elderly body was quickly exhausted and beaten to a bloody pulp after the second straight day of drinking Natural Light out of rinsed out coffee mugs.

Tropical Storm Ernesto was no help to the situation. At least when you go to the shore you can arrive with the intention of spending long days on the beach surfing or playing volleyball. However, bad weather turns any aspirations of somewhat healthy activity into fears of the keg being kicked before everyone wants to go see cheesy cover bands play repetitive top 40 songs loud enough to fracture your skull.

It was definitely a scene to which I was not privy during my slightly younger years. I was always kind of a moderate partier with moments of greatness (or should I say disaster) on rare occasion. Now, as a washed up working stiff closer to 30 than 25, this weekend was evidence that I should probably hang up the beer bong.

As I was leaving the ransacked and beer drenched beach house (and it's lovely stench) I felt, in a strange way, sad. I was sad to leave the youthful and free spirited oasis from reality. I was sad to leave my bro. I was even a little disheartened about leaving the cover bands that blew melodic power chords through my eardrums.

Maybe I'll catch them on next year's tirade through south Jersey, but I doubt I'll be hangin' with quite as tight of a grip.


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