So let’s get started.
I, too, am a downtown girl, not the same one as before but a downtown girl all the same. I’ve danced with Rasa Van Werder (unwillingly), sipped many a scorpion bowl (unwisely) , and taken more sketchy cab rides than I should openly admit (Narcoleptic Jeff anyone?).
In truth, I’ve laughed and cried on State Street, sometimes on the same night ( *nostalgic sigh* ah memories!)–and as I’m now beginning my 4th consecutive fall on State Street, I think it’s safe to say that I’ve experienced the full spectrum of emotions associated with that always-beckoning weekend oasis.
Dozens of Forever 21 tops and vodka cranberries into my downtown Binghamton career, I’ve developed my own theory about State Street. You see, in my 3 years at Binghamton I’ve come to the conclusion that State Street does not actually exist, because really, there are an infinite number of State Streets, each a different dimension, and the state street dimension you enter depends entirely on how drunk and what kind of drunk you are on a particular night.
As for me, I’ve entered myriad dimensions of State Street since I came to Binghamton 3 years ago including but not limited to: happy-drunk State Street, desperately-searching-for-dude State Street, depressed State Street, I aced my midterm State Street, I failed my midterm State Street, and the resident State Street of the past two years, in a relationship State Street. But I’m here today because I have recently garnered experience with a unique and– up until now -hidden state street dimension: newly-single State Street.
Anyone who has had a boyfriend during their time at Binghamton knows that State Street is a drastically different place when you are in a relationship. Going downtown somehow just isn’t the same when you leave at 1:45 a.m every Friday and Saturday and head home to cuddle. In fact, go to State Street with a boyfriend and you might as well be wearing the scarlet letter. You just seem to repel all the fun, or maybe it’s just that getting into dramatic, alcohol-induced scuffles with your significant other always seems to take precedence over enjoying the moment.
One thing is for sure. I’ve definitely changed a lot since the last time I was single on State Street nearly 2 years ago. For starters, I’m no longer naïve enough to believe that I will spot my future husband across the bar while I chug a beer tower at Tom and Marty’s . That was certainly the case in freshmen year, when if I had even the shortest of conversations with a guy downtown, I would imagine Keane’s “Somewhere only we know” swelling up above DJ Dima’s beats. That was back when I took it all way too seriously, and I can only hope that I’m a wiser person now than I was back then.
I’ve come to the realization that this is my senior year, my final attempt to experience State Street in all of its reckless glory. And maybe now that I’ve travailed the woes of being a sloppy-mess freshmen , to sobering sophomore, to committed-relationship junior, I can finally experience single-girl State Street the way it was meant to be experienced, with a huge grain of salt- and hopefully, a shot of tequila to go with it.