Ex party girl angst

No regrets... ok, maybe a few.

I’ve been reading a lot of party-girl memoirs lately. I just finished

Zara Barrie

’s and I’m halfway through

CAT MARNELL

’s. And it got me thinking a lot about my own past as a party girl.

Unlike famous party girls, growing up in Staten Island didn’t lend itself to ultra-glamorous partying. Nights at New York City’s hottest clubs were far and few between, so I definitely wasn’t rubbing elbows with the Olsen twins or anything like that. Yeah, you’re technically in New York City, but The Island is a hike from Manhattan. You couldn’t pay me enough to hop on the godforsaken ferry in six-inch Jeffrey Campbell knock-offs and a crop top in the winter. So local dives and Guido hotspots were the move until summer, when it was finally time to head “down the shore.”

Being at the Jersey Shore with my girlfriends was better than the MTV show. We spent our first summer living in a house next to D’Jais, which was the superior Jersey Shore club (and where it should’ve been filmed). We’d sing and dance until the bar closed down, followed by late-night mac and cheese bites and a continued dance party at our house. Every Thursday night felt like Christmas because weekends at the shore were from Thursday to Monday. Getting in the car after work, I’d be buzzing with energy in anticipation of what was ahead. But by Monday, the switch would flip. I’d be hangxiety-riddled, replaying every bad thing I did that weekend as I drove up the Garden State Parkway back to my job at the MAC counter.

It wasn’t all dance parties and drunk munchies, you see. While I look back fondly on my twenties, I also remember the bad decisions and dark moments. Like spending half of my night at the bars in a bathroom stall with three girlfriends and a rolled-up dollar bill. Or that one night our creepy neighbor, the fat-fuck DJ, followed me home as I stumbled down the street and proceeded to take advantage of me. I’m horrified by the thousands of drunk texts sent to boys who didn’t love me and the gallons of tears I cried when they’d hit on my friends.

Being a party girl is equally fun and scary. My core group of girlfriends, who I am still super close with, are fun with a capital F, but I had to be the wildest one of the bunch during those times. Some would dabble in substances, pull all-nighters, and hook up with the occasional sleazy guy. I’d do all that and then some. (I blame it on my daddy issues and a controlling ex-boyfriend.)

I was in Staten Island this month for my cousin’s wedding. My best friend generously offered to host us for the weekend, and I was beyond excited to spend some time lounging, gossiping, and catching up with one of my favorite people. I can’t remember the last time we went out to dinner, so we decided to hit the Guido hotspots town. Not surprisingly, a mini-rager was had. The next night was the highly anticipated ✨ Big Gay Italian Wedding 🌈, where I binge-drank Hugo spritzes while shaking my ass to Gaga and bumming smokes off my stepdad. By the time Sunday morning came, the booze was seeping out of my pores, and I could still taste cigarettes on my tongue despite brushing my teeth. The old but familiar hangxiety flooded in, along with memories of my party-girl past.

Listen, it wasn’t all bad. If it wasn’t for being a party girl, I wouldn’t have met my husband at that boozy brunch and proceeded to have what I thought would be a one-night stand. I wouldn’t have gone on girls’ trips where I made memories and kissed British boys. And I wouldn’t have had some of the deepest heart-to-heart conversations at 4 a.m. around the patio table of a rundown Point Pleasant Beach house.

I always say that people my age, give or take a few years, were robbed of their last few party years during COVID. Like we had one or two more years left, and they were abruptly taken away from us. Between that and then moving to Florida, where my social circle is pretty much nonexistent, I didn’t realize how drastically my lifestyle has changed.

Now I drink alcohol once every other month, I’ve never bought a pack of cigarettes while I’ve lived here, and I’m asleep most nights by 10:30 p.m. I whine from time to time about my lack of social life and level of boredom, but it’s peaceful, it’s healthy, and I like it this way.

But if you ever want to hit me up for a few dirty martinis and Marlboro Menthol Lites… I’m game.

I won this t-shirt by shaking my ass in one of the weekly dance contests.

If you’re not stalking me yet, what are you even doing? Find me on Instagram @kristina_nasti and TikTok @kristina_nasti