There Always a Better Party

Your Party Hosts

My senior year of college was a wild mix of creativity, camaraderie, and questionable decision-making, all wrapped up in a haze of late nights, aluminum-foiled faces (Guest of the apartment had to do as they entered.), and a bit of studying sprinkled in for good measure. It was a fantastic year, filled with a tight-knit group of friends (The Boneheads), a unique living situation with my roommate Laura (strictly platonic, despite my parents' vehement opposition to the arrangement), and a general sense that we were all on the cusp of something big—whatever that was.

Enter my dad. A minister, but not the fire-and-brimstone type. He was an intellectual, deeply thoughtful, and loved my brother and me unconditionally. He understood university life in the academic sense, though he had no clue about the specifics of my day-to-day. That was probably for the best.

I wasn’t eager for him to visit during Dad’s Weekend—football games and beer-soaked enthusiasm weren’t really our thing. Instead, he came on a quieter weekend, and we spent our time walking around the University of Illinois campus, visiting my class buildings, and eating at various restaurants. We never set foot in a bar, and our conversations remained at a safe, surface-level depth, like two boats passing each other with polite nods but never really docking.

By the second night, my dad was winding down, but my good friend Jim and I were itching to go to a party. The problem was, Dad wasn’t quite ready to turn in, and I wasn’t sure how to gracefully make my exit. Finally, I just asked, “Would it be okay if Jim and I went to a party?”

He looked at me and said, “John, there is always a better party.”

Jim and I exchanged glances, full of youthful anticipation, and took that as a green light. We practically bolted out the door, off to find whatever mythical, life-changing experience awaited us at the next house, or the one after that.

To this day, I still don’t know exactly what he meant. Was he warning us that the search for the next great thing is never-ending and ultimately unsatisfying? That we’d always think the next party would be better, only to find ourselves in an endless loop of disappointment? Or was he simply acknowledging that our time together had ended for the evening, and it was okay to move on? Or—most likely—was he just being sarcastic, trying to tell me not to go without outright forbidding it?

I’ll never know. But I think about that night fairly often, and lately, it’s been on my mind more than usual.

My wife (who I had no idea would be at the time, but is pictured in front of the foil wall) and I are celebrating our joint 60th birthday this year, a party lovingly planned and hosted by our daughters at their apartment. We sent out invitations with a request for RSVPs. So far, maybe 10% of the invitees have responded. We’ve had to follow up some people, and while absolutely not upset about it, a small part of me wonders: Are they waiting for their better party?

Future Wife to Be

Maybe that’s just how we all are, still searching for the elusive “better” option, afraid to commit in case something shinier comes along. But if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s this—sometimes the best party isn’t the one you’re chasing. It’s the one right in front of you, even if it just involves walking around campus with someone who loves you, eating at the local diner, and talking about nothing in particular.

And if you’re lucky, there might even be aluminum foil involved.