Oh What a Night

There’s a particular smell that takes me right back to college. One little whiff of it and I’m right back, 15 years younger, having a blast. It’s not the smell of new books or dusty libraries, nor is it the chemical smell of dry erase marker. It’s not the smell of burning microwave popcorn during late night study sessions, or of Noxzema on my roommate’s face. It’s the sickly sweet smell of spilt beer on a barroom floor.
Now that I’m a stay-at-home mom in the suburbs, I don’t have many occasions to step into a college bar. We go out on the weekends, but it’s generally not to places with sticky floors. But every once in a great while, I’ll go somewhere that has a hint of stale beer aroma. One hint of a whiff and I’m transported back to late nights dancing with a few of my closest friends in the Pub, our student-run campus bar. Everyone is dripping with sweat, “Oh What a Night” is blasting, and we’re all singing at the top of our lungs. We’ve all been screaming and dancing for hours; we’re hot and wasted; but we don’t care. We’ll stay at the Pub until it closes. It’s where everyone ends up on Saturday night. No one would dream of going home before closing the Pub. The following Monday, we’ll all be back in class together, working hard, but that night we’re all about the celebration, the pure release of letting it all out. Whenever “Oh What a Night” comes on the radio, even if I’m driving the minivan at 8AM with the kids bickering in the back, exhilaration courses through me. For the 90 seconds the song lasts, I’m back at the Pub having the time of my life.

This post was inspired by the prompt "time machine" on Sunday Scribblings.