Sophmoritis

Sophmoritis

Being a regular does not make you a local.

Hanging out at Loaded Joes is something I do far too often. It is an experience, let me just take this moment to say, that has gone down with the recent installation of bolted bar stools, replacing the free standing, hand-painted chairs I had become accustomed to. Seriously, the new ones lack any sort of character whatsoever. I've been thinking of switching my bar to Altitude, they have free pool after all, but it's such a LONG walk—ten extra minutes at least—and getting regular status is really a lot of work and I'm not sure I'm up for it.

I suck at pool anyway. 

There are a lot of perks to having a regular bar, the best of which is that you get to know the bartenders and that's nice because then you can walk into the bar anytime after work (or before/on a smoke break) and be able to chat with at least one person. Sure, in some parts of the world, going to a bar by yourself might seem a touch sad and lonely or possibly represent the beginning manifestation of mild alcohol dependence, but in Vail, it's just a cultural experience.

This is what I tell myself.

 

Ahem.

So I'm sitting on one of these terribly uncomfortable and soulless bar stools chatting with my bartending buddy, Joe, when a bouncy Burton clad rider chic strolls in. She's obviously new and very excited to be here.

“Hi!” she exclaims to Joe, “I'm New and Very Excited to Be Here from Somewhere Not Nearly As Cool As This Place! I work at many recognizable places in the village that I want to tell you about so you know that I am now living here!”

“Wow! New and Very Excited to Be Here, it's great to meet you!” Joe exclaims—she's very nice and enthusiastic in almost all situations, unlike me, who is snorting into my beer, “What can I get you?” she asks the girl.

 “We need some shots! Whiskey! And do you have something for locals!?”

Silly girl, I find myself thinking, You've been here what? Two weeks?

“So...whiskey?” Joe ignores the local question.

That's right, I say in my head, No local special for you newbie!

Then I start to consider what's actually going on in my mind.

I've been here ONE YEAR. You don't get local status in this town until you approach ONE DECADE. And at that point I'm sure there's some sort of long, secret, application procedure.

I realize I have been suffering from a momentary spell of Sophmoritis, a condition where newly risen Freshmen believe they can now run campus. It's a dreadfully awful disease, leading to all sorts of embarrassing encounters and incremental losses of self-respect. 

It's quite contagious. 

I need to be careful before some upperclassman steals my lunch money.

I change my message from one of derision to one of welcome:

Freshie, you and I are the same. When it comes down to it, I am still pretty new and quite excited to be here.
Welcome to a place way cooler than where you are from. Keep asking for local specials my friend, eventually, the odds are you'll find one.