Kramerbooks and Afterwords Cafe
1517 Connecticut Ave. N.W.

Fall of senior year is upon us, and last year’s rush of piss-drunk 21st birthdays has slowed to a sad, sober trickle. But last Sunday, a friend drove down all the way from Massachusetts to party in the District on her last night of fun before she got too old for it. (Note to everyone turning 22 this year: I don’t want to hear it. I, like the rest of the world, am already bored by you).

So after hitting a party the night leading up to her big day (beer bongs came out, flip cup ensued), the birthday girl and a friend of ours asked me out to Afterwords Cafe, the hip little joint with the big menu tucked in the back of Dupont mainstay Kramerbooks. Arriving as we did, around midnight, the three of us ordered drinks (one Godiva martini, a Belgian white and an oatmeal stout) and desserts (a peach cobbler, Boston cream pie and an apple crumb pie a-la-mode) as we caught up on each other’s lives and toasted to the coming of (drinking) age. Snippits of conversations drifted by us and giant ampersands hung above as we traded stories in the narrow, shadowy cafe. I sipped my Hefeweizen (they were out of the Belgian white), delicious with the pie, and took in the cafe’s relaxing atmosphere as the Dupont scene floated past outside.

But then, a few friends of Liza’s from college, who had drunkenly cabbed to meet up with us, staggered in. They were falling over each other and laughing as they pulled up extra chairs to our table. “Hey, can I have a Bud?” a buzzed-cut boy called out to our waitress in his thick Boston accent. She didn’t even stop to look at him. “Well, we don’t carry Budweiser. So no,” she replied in a tone dripping with sarcasm.

I was aghast. I had let myself become comfortable in some strange world where Bud was the source of mockery. And my life would never be the same.

That got me thinking: am I already at the point where I care about the difference between a Hefeweizen and a Belgian white? Am I really lying on my bed in my pajamas trying to write a sassy nightlife column right now? Did a man with his pants pulled down past his knees actually shake his penis at us from across the street as we walked home?

Yes, yes and YES.

Point is: I’m a 21-year-old college student looking for a cheap, fun and drink, not a 35-year-old divorcee wondering aloud how long seaweed body wraps will decrease the size of my thighs. How long is it until I’m that older woman awkwardly thanking the cashier for carding me on my wine cooler purchase? How many more times am I going to let strangers tell me I look like the least attractive member of Sex and the City?

Now, I’m not saying that Afterwords isn’t completely and utterly charming. (Hello – GIANT HANGING AMPERSANDS!). But honestly – college isn’t over yet. And beer, damnit, is still beer.

At some point, surely, we must accept it: we can no longer illegally shotgun Natty lights in the backyard of a party that our friend’s band’s bassist’s older brother heard about. But hey – we can still shotgun Natty lights! And isn’t that better than a quick full frontal after an expensive import?

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