Read Online I'm Only Here for the WiFi by Chelsea Fagan - Free Book Online

taking pictures of wildlife to note in some adorable little journal like you’re ten years old, you have endless options out there.
    But whatever you choose to dedicate your time to, you have to find something. Because we have all likely met that guy who has so thoroughly clung to the collegiate lifestyle, basing all life’s significant moments and unallocated time to drinking or, in a more general sense, “partying.” While there is definitely a certain charm in being the most efficient binge drinker in the tristate area when you’re nineteen, that title gains a tinge of sadness when you’re well into your twenties.
    Obvious health implications for your poor, innocent liver aside, there are distinct limitations in a lifestyle that is wholly centered around being perpetually inebriated. You’ll only meet certain kinds of people, go certain places, and you’ll have to face the inevitable fear of socializing while completely sober and 100 percent yourself. For some, the idea of integrating a new daily/weekly activity that may cost money, doesn’t come with free drinks, and is based on learning a skill seems foreign at best, terrifying at worst. It’s just not something we’re used to.
    Taking up a new activity for the first time can be terrifying; it requires stepping out of the comfort zone of “hanging out” that we never even considered before. It’s disarming at first, how much joining a group makes us all feel like children again—afraid to embarrass ourselves and constantly on the verge of nervous tears.
    I remember the first time I went to a real swing dance class (a hobby that would end up becoming a big part of my life), I was fucking terrified. First of all, I’ve always been a pretty uncoordinated human being. It’s not that I’m not graceful, as much as I’m essentially a human version of those crazy inflatable dancing car dealership guys. I just kind of flop and wiggle around like an overcooked noodle, knocking things over and spilling things on myself. And, true to form, I was terrible at first. I couldn’t remember the steps, I had a hard time letting other people lead me, and I had hilariously poor form. It was just a mess, and for hours at a time, I would feel the creeping, burning feeling on the back of my neck of a bunch of randos watching me humiliating myself for their enjoyment.
    Even worse, the entire group seemed like high school 2.0, in that everyone was already paired off, cliqued up, and designated into “cool” versus “not cool.” The people who were really good dancers were in their own little world, completely unaffected by the plebians over in our corner trying to learn not to step on their own feet every time they turned. It seemed like an impenetrable world of talent and friendship and preestablished groups. But as with most things, as we get more familiar with an environment, it tendsto lose some of its initial, terrifying luster. It became more understandable, I started to really dance, and the once-intimidating groups suddenly revealed themselves as standard-issue Dance Nerds who were just really cool in their one environment. Outside of that—at a party, for example—they were as awkward and strange as everyone else. And considering how much partying serves to unify even the most diverse groups of friends and hobbyists, it was hilarious to see them so completely out of their element.
    We come to rely on the act of partying as a social lubricant that allows us to do—and attempt to have sex with—whatever we want. And there’s nothing wrong with partying; it’s awesome. But let’s not act as though the actual definition of a party itself doesn’t drastically change the further away from higher education we get. There are only so many times you can initiate a round of beer pong on a Tuesday night before all your nine-to-five friends start looking at you as “that