Last Saturday, I did something so irresponsible that even writing about it makes me feel guilty about it. However, all things considered, my parents not only did not kill me, but they were surprisingly understanding of me and my situation.
So, yesterday there was a “Onesie Bar Crawl” around Morristown. Now, Morristown isn’t exactly the Excitement Capital of the World, so Bar Crwals are basically the Entertainment highlight of such, so I could forward to beer, free food, and millennial rock. I thought to myself That sounds like fun, maybe I’ll sign up for tickets? Needless to say, my parents were also planning to go to an autism conference the exact same evening, so I reminded my parents about the event before signing up (I had to order my ticket online.) After all, Mom was controlling my finances, and I didn’t want to upset her by going behind their backs. I was looking forward to a fun night on the town, even if said “town” was technically a boring suburb.
Needless to say, there’s a lot to be said for great expectations.
You see, yours truly is terrible at organization. I spent about an hour looking for some eyeliner I had misplaced (It was Kat Von D, whom I deeply appreciated.) Needless to say, finding it became a moot point, and made me completely forget about putting my ID back in my purse (I had brought a really cute clutch my boyfriend gave me for Christmas.) Dad, being the absent-minded professor he was, didn’t even bother checking before I left.
So, yours truly stopped at the Laundromat first. As it turns out, they were fine with me giving me my Medicaid card as an ID, so I was able to enjoy the joint.
And enjoy I did! I had a blast drinking Coors Light, partying, and complimenting the other young millennials on their awesome onesies. I even told one guy in a dinosaur onesie about Velocipastor, a movie about a priest who transforms into a velociraptor. (Why yes, this movie exists. Look it up when you get the chance; it’s so terrible it’s awesome!) Needless to say, he was both shocked and amazed by it.
That being said, the following joint my friends decided to check out required an ID. Not a Medicaid card, a real, live ID. Technically, I’m 23 (I’ll be 23 1/2 in about a week, going by sheer technicality), but I’m so youthful-looking I could play a teenager on television, and nobody would say a word. (I do plan to play an animal-morphing teenager in a screenplay I’ve recently written, but that’s another story.) So I understand where the bouncer was coming from.
Because the bar section is technically (by which I mean “a good half-hour in the rain”) in walking distance from my house, I decided to walk home to get my ID from my house. However, I realized it would be another half-hour walking in the rain, so I decided to contact my neighbor about getting a ride. After all, it was only 10 minutes (at most), what could possibly go wrong?
As it turns out, an awful goddamn lot.
I called up my neighbor, whom my family is very close to. (I’ve been taught by many people that I shouldn’t go into cars with people I don’t know almost as often as I’ve been taught not to text and drive. Almost.) Due to concern about me, he decided to call Mom and Dad to tell them what happened. Not only were they absolutely shocked, they- this is where the fun comes in- heavily discouraged me from going back to the bar place. Cue ten minutes of arguing and yours truly getting upset and angry at them.
“Jenny, it’s the middle of the night, you’ll get lost, there’s no guarantee they’re still there.”
“But I can call you to remind you guys I’ll be fine!”
“Jenny, I understand you want to go back, but the answer is simple: we say no.” Mom even tried saying it was technically optional, but still vetoing it. (Ask her how that system works.) Eventually, after seeing how upset I was and feeling terrible about merely standing there, (people who aren’t my parents tend to be nicer to me, my horrible guidance counselor at college notwithstanding) my neighbor tried to reassure them he was fine to drive, he wasn’t doing anything at home anyway. (Except sitting around watching football.) He even offered to give me a ride back. (I felt so terrible about what had happened that I passed up his offer; after all someone was bound to have extra room on their Uber ride.) Eventually, my parents caved in, but made me reassure them it wouldn’t happen again.
I did have fun at the next bar, but less fun than I’d thought I did because I felt guilty about what happened. I did pretty much the same thing at this bar- party to 2000s pop punk, compliment on peoples’ onesies, get a beer. They also, luckily, had some free food left over for dinner, so I didn’t starve.
As for my ride, I finally found my new friends at the bar. I merely asked them “What’s going on?” and they started saying things like “You’re so amazing Jenny, even though you’re weird, we totally get it, because you’re awesome” you know, being drunk and all. The way they put it, you’d think I invented the cure for cancer, danced with Beyoncé, and got elected Queen of the World, they were just that smashed. It was even kind of weirding me out for a minute. Oh well, at least they were nice to me, even if saying that was massive understatement. We finally got an Uber ride, and they adored me so much, that not only did they get the driver to add my address to their Uber (he appreciated getting the extra cash), but urged him to get me home first- after all, it was the closest one from the bar.
Now, I’ve always been sensitive to people telling me “no.” My parents, who are both baby boomers are old enough to remember when kids were expected to suck it up even though the world was really, really, really mean and scary try to reassure me that the world can be unfair (you wouldn’t BELIEVE how upset I was about Benedict Cumberbatch, my favorite actor, being on Jimmy Kimmel Live! after the latter mocked my parents’ autism work, and in his Dr. Strange costume no less! Now you see why I enjoyed my new friends putting me on a pedestal after they got smashed.) So most of the time, they interpret my behavior as me being a whiny little bitch. Yes, even with Benedict being buddies with Jimmy Kimmel. Especially with him being buddies with Jimmy Kimmel, because, honey, at least you aren’t severely disabled like so-and-so’s son, and celebrities are shallow and stupid anyway. Not that they’re bad parents by a long stretch, but sometimes I, um, kind of forget that.
That being said, even they understood being upset about not being able to go to a party was such a typical experience, it’s practically a rite-of-passage-my parents know a lot of families whose kids are so disabled they can only wish their kid would get upset about something like that- for a 15-year-old. I am, however, slow in maturity (small wonder the bouncer needed to see my ID), and was writing weird Backyard Sports fanfiction (How weird? Well, to quote some guy on Twitter who found it online, “Welp, time to grab the bleach”- autism really is a hell of a drug.) when I was actually fifteen, so I was merely making up for lost time. Oh well, just as long as they have that experience by the time they’re my age. Not to mention, nothing says “typical 23-year-old” quite like a fun bar hop! Small wonder I felt like my parents were “babying” me when they discouraged me from going back to the bar.
So, this morning my mother finally realized I needed a job. It would be extremely beneficial for me-I would get a sense of responsibility, a good social life, and most importantly, get out of the house. I was glad at my mom for a. Not being too upset at me. and b. understanding where I was coming from. The fact that nothing terrible happened to me definitely helped- as my grandfather himself put it, “Don’t worry about the bullet that you missed.” Hopefully, my local library will have a nice gig for me to work for, or at least a nice training job. Every little bit of experience helps towards my target job!
Normal is just a Dryer Setting- Living with Autism 