In Response to Last Thursday

Like all college students, I've seen some crazy things in my day. I watched a group of freshmen tolerate being hazed by a fraternity, because they didn't realize that they could say "I don't want to run until I vomit". I heard the periodic thuds and subsequent laughter of hard hat-wearing men sprinting head-first into a door, because everyone else was doing it. I was one of a dozen students who spent 16 hours deriving the equations for fluid flow through a rectangular tube, because we didn't realize that the highest possible score on the assignment was a "check-plus".

We're idiots. Fortunately, we're supposed to be idiots; school molds us into a state of cultivation and enlightenment, but even the most refined sculpture starts off as a hormonal, Wikipedia-citing lump of clay.

Being a group setting can lead to a backslide, and we revert to the adolescent indulgence of bad ideas that we thought we'd left behind. Some call it groupthink. Some call it mob mentality. I call it college.

In the right context, the group effect can be a fantastic asset. Struggling for that sense of inclusion with academically gifted classmates can force a student to raise their game significantly. Moreover, the lunacy of late nights in Brooklyn, elaborate pranks on housemates, and unplanned interstate roadtrips will inject some much-needed adventure into a comfortably bland lifestyle.

However, there is one product of collegiate groupthink that stands out as uniquely stupid. It is so unpleasant, so undesirable, that it simply defies understanding. Nevertheless, it is widespread, it is accepted, and in most cases it is gleefully facilitated. I am referring, of course, to the 21st Birthday Binge.

By no means am I a prohibitionist. I think that alcohol is a terrific social lubricant, and it's a well-established fact that beer is delicious. In fact, I'd describe myself as the opposite of a prohibitionist. I guess I'm a conhibitionist.

For one thing, I am a big fan of individual freedom. People should have the choice of how much to drink, and how often. And they do! Well done, constitution. This works out exactly as you'd expect: those that limit their drinking tend to excel, and those that go on benders generally handicap themselves - it's hard enough to study Biochemistry, let alone with a hangover. It's a sort of self-imposed Social Darwinism.

If I was some sort of politician, which I thank my lucky stars is not the case, I would be a proponent of lowering the drinking age. If someone tells you that the law prevents anyone from underage drinking, slap them in their lying mouth. All the law succeeds in doing is the promotion of binging - you never know when you'll be caught, so you have to get while the gettin's good. It doesn't teach responsible drinking, it teaches intoxication optimization.

This lesson is well-learned by the time Joe Undergrad reaches his 21st birthday. The result is not surprising: 21st birthday parties are inevitably shit-shows. They start off innocently enough, with a round of shots here, a round of drinks there. It's fun to drink with a group of friends.

It is when the Birthday Boy's friends enable the overindulgence in potent potables that the evening goes South. It's fun to drink together, but is it more fun when one member of the group is pushed too far? "It's okay, it's his 21st, everyone gets blitzed on their 21st". True, but why?

There is a subtle turning point in the party, after which the Birthday Boy is no longer really in control. He's having a great time, and there's just not enough processing power left in his booze-addled brain to predict the consequences of drinking more. Still, the friends keep buying shots. It's a party! It's his birthday! Celebrate! This, my friends, is decision-making time. Do you keep buying drinks, or do you cut him off? The latter decision is rare indeed.

The onset of nausea is sudden and severe. We've all been there, so I won't bother describing it. What is interesting is the behavior of all of the partygoers, who now treat the poor Birthday Boy like he's radioactive. It might be the greenish pallor of his cheeks that makes him look like he's bathed in uranium, or it might be his unsteady stance that sends a visual warning to keep away.

What happens next is unpleasant, to say the least. The 21st Birthday Binge gives way to a scramble for the nearest toilet, garbage, or bush. Soon, the poor kid doesn't care where he's puking, just so long as the fire in his stomach subsides. The sounds he makes would fit well in a horror movie. Dinner goes everywhere.

If he's lucky, he'll have a friend to carry him to a couch. The party will continue, because nobody wants to leave the comfort of the group. He's 21, and this is what happens when you turn 21. He'll be fine.

Why does this have to happen? Why do we push our friends past their limits? I think it's a sense of friendship, of magnanimity... and it's just easier to ignore the consequences.

In fact, there aren't actually any consequences. The party always continues uninterrupted, assuming the regurgitation took place elsewhere. The new 21 year old is too drunk to recall any of his misery, having blacked out while still the life of the party, and will remember the evening fondly after the hangover subsides. The only real loser of the evening is the stupid doormat who helped the Birthday Boy out.