How to Know When to Hang Up Your Party Pants

Luckily for newly christened cube monkeys, Universities lay out strict, albeit unwritten, visitation policies for alum in recent remission. These include 1 year of eligibility for full-weekend visits post-commencement date....

Luckily for newly christened cube monkeys, Universities lay out strict, albeit unwritten, visitation policies for alum in recent remission. These include 1 year of eligibility for full-weekend visits post-commencement date. After said annum expires, on-campus overnight IKEA futon surfing debauchery is strictly prohibited. In lieu of sleepovers at the old frat castle; football tailgates, alumni weekends and in roughly 18 to 22 years, parents weekends, are the only permitted interactions.

International policy is a bit more unclear in regards to young adulthood, however. You know, that time between when the grace period for your student loans ends and “death” by nuptials, children and middle management monotony. More colloquially the Murtaugh rules dictate when you’re too old for shit, but at Entry Revel we wanted to build a field guide that will tell you when it’s time to hang it up. Let us shine some light on this grey area …

You start to disdain lines.

As a 22 year old, a queue as the Brits call it, is a rite of passage best known for ID pass backs and ripping nips to ensure full blackout before you have to talk anyone of the opposite sex. Barring some diabolical, economic-minded bouncer trying to create a visual influx in demand, a line typically means you are about to enter a sweaty fart box of dude love. Anyone over 24 knows that leaving this sausage fest for the local Chili’s is always the right call.

You order wine at bars.

Back in your rage, rally, repeat days before you noticed when you stuck to the floor in bars, these top 40 playing, STD factories served wine from a box in two varieties: red or white. If you not only have a favorite country, but a favorite region and have had referred to yourself sheepishly as “a bit of a sommelier”, you’re not only a douche, but probably also enjoy bran muffins and BBC America.

You’ve said a bar is “too loud” or “too dark”.

Once a hunting technique used in your pursuit of a trophy slay, loud bass drowned out the awkward conversation that filled the time before going “back to my place” and the dark shroud hid your man boobs and adult acne. Now when you’re not busy going to casting calls for Life Alert or telling kids to get off your lawn, you’re using a candle to light your menu, going to a bar that plays the news and working on your dad joke repertoire.

Your hairstyle is at least two trends behind the “kids”.

Barring Bowl Cut-gate circa 1992, you’ve had the same haircut for roughly the entire lifespan of your intern: some gentrified version of the uptown fade that has made SuperCuts millions of dollars. You thought about the hard-part combover after watching Season 2 of ‘Mad Men’ but figured your 90 year old barber would make fun of you in Italian to his friends. And now everyone looks like Leonardo Dicaprio in that shirtless squirt gun picture:


You don’t understand WHAT Kanye West is.

As if a sudden case of pop culture Alzheimer’s has overcome me, I have no clue who, or what Kanye West is anymore. He is like the Inception of people: an enigma of a human being, wrapped in a person beefing with a country singer who is married into the royal family of invisible fame.

Your style is 8 seasons outdated.

You assume Jimmy Buffet is in town when you see Hawaiian shirts and call Chubbies wearing bros bi-curious under your breath. You were just getting used to skinny jeans and short sleeve button downs when sport coats with elbow pads came back from the dead.

You finally don’t know how to use one piece of technology.

Like Hansel trying to get it “in the computer” you’ve watched 4 YouTube videos posted by 12 year olds on how to use SnapChat. You finally warmed up to Tinder just in time for it to be taken over by mountain trolls, Bernie Sanders supporters and some dudes from Grindr who figured they could get you to switch teams.


You’ll suck dick for a bed.

The definition of a bed is a moving target ranging from college to first apartment to living in sin with a significant other. In college, a bed is less of a physical location, but a vague ideology of an earthly surface where you can rest your weary blacked out soul and get penises drawn on your face. After college anything short of memory foam tempurpedic that has been developed by NASA and can adjust to your sleeping patterns based on the Bluetooth connection with your Fitbit is pure peasantry.

You haven’t heard a good song since Fat Joe and Ashanti.

If the most recent new music you liked was presented to you in reverse order by Carson Daly in a Times Square, MTV studio in roughly 2004, you’re old AF. When your music is illegally ripped from a defunct company that Justin Timberlake’s character from ‘Social Network’ invented, you’re old AF. If you’re still trying to figure out what AF, means you’re old, as fuck.

You fear a Saturday hangover on Wednesday afternoon.

It’s not the epic proportion of a post car rental age hangover, it’s the paralyzing thought of a Saturday spent vertical drinking Pedialite and wearing sunglasses inside. The pre-battle jitters are a full on deluge of panic attack and PTSD that will cause you to look into the illegal IV market.

Your glory days might be behind you but find inspiration in the Brett Favre’s or Joe Namaths of the world who remind us all that you might not be as good as you once were, but you’re as good once as you ever were.

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