The period of life post college is one of the harder transitions a person can go through. Students whose lives were once so regulated are trying to figure out their next steps; where to live, where to work, and how to stumble through this world as adult figures. For our friends, it was a scary thought after four years of beer bongs, Jaeger bombs, and pot brownies, but most of us seemed to have muddled though just fine.

It was during this three month stage of purgatory post college when I lived at home back with my parents prior to getting a job here in San Francisco. A few of us Folsomites were back in town while we figured our next steps. I was searching for apartments in San Francisco, applying for jobs, and working part time while trying to figure out what I was going to do for the rest of my life. My old high school friend Danny and I socialized with one another fairly regularly, both being back at home for a couple of months, and having the same ardor for binge drinking and sarcasm. Danny is one of the guys who is always hilarious, sometimes charming and never without a cynical commentary.

Danny and I had been platonically friends since we were freshmen in high school, so the comfort level was pretty high between us. We spent many of those warm valley  evenings together, barbecuing on the deck, swimming at the lake, chatting about job searches and the adventures to follow.

It was on one of those balmy Sacramento summer nights that Danny and I decided to venture to our favorite local bar down in old town Folsom called the Powerhouse Pub. I was being flown out for an interview for a big job two days later, so I thought it would be a great opportunity to relax, get a few laughs in, and prep myself before my plane ride down to southern California. Our friend Dustin was also in town, and my parents were on their semi annual Hawaii trip, so there was plenty of pre-party fuel available at the Watson family abode.

After a good dozen of red bull vodkas between us, Danny and I seemed to think a brisk walk back to my parent’s house after last call would be just right. I threw Dustin the keys to my house, screaming “Partaaaaaay!” and Danny and I started our walk home. I clearly hadn’t quite accepted my next stage of adulthood just yet.

At some point throughout our adventure back to my parent’s place in Los Cerros, racing down the street suddenly seemed entirely necessary. I ran ahead, and Danny of course made an attempt to squander my few moments of championship and sprint ahead past me. I saw Danny stop up ahead for what I thought was to take a rest, so I ran full force past him.

But I didn’t make it very far. Suddenly, I was tripping over something, and Danny caught me in his arms.  I hit the ground slightly with my knee, twisted sharply, and when I went to stand back up found I had absolutely no strength in my right ankle. “Damn it, Danny, I think I sprained my ankle.! Shit, how did that happen?””

“Christie, I am so sorry” Danny said, sincere panic and somberness in his eyes, “I meant to just catch you, I am so sorry I hurt you. Here, grab onto my shoulder, and we can make it home. There are only a couple more blocks.”

In San Francisco, we would have of course just called a cab, but taxis are few and far between in wholesome Folsom, so it seemed hopping on one foot was as good as it was going to get in my drunken stupor.

No more that thirty seconds after we began making our slow progress back to the house, Danny and I spotted an ambulance driving by. Then, out of its own accord, it pulled over and slid open the door. “Umm, do you guys need help?” the medic asked. Maybe our slurred speech and my lack of ability to walk was a clue.

“Yes, yes,! Thank you so much!” Danny and I accepted. We crawled into the back, and I got some ointment to the knee, but god knows these medics weren’t about to tend to the ankle on this inebriated 21 year old without an insurance card who could barely remember her last name. We were dropped off at the door to house full of life, and I remembered I had drunkenly invited half the bar back home for a party.

Once inside, Danny explained the story to our guests, emphasizing how I accidentally fell, how he attempted so chivalrously to catch me, and unfortunately I sprained my ankle as a result.

“She fell so fast there was nothing I could do about it” Danny justified. “I feel so awful about this.”

Off to the side of the room, our friend Dustin stared at Danny with a huge smirk on his face. “Really, Danny, is that what happened?”

“Yeah,” Danny said, shrugging nonchalantly, “Christie tripped, and I caught her, but she still twisted her ankle.”

“Funny” Dustin said. “Then where did this come from?”

Dustin pulled out his cell phone, and played a message on speaker for all to hear.  Danny’s voice echoed from the phone, breathless.  Deep breath, inhale… “Dustin… “ Deep breaths… “It’s Danny….” More panting. “I’m chasing Christie down the street…” breath, breath, “I’m ahead of her…” pause…. “I’m gonna trip this bitch.”

I don’t know what was worse…. Having to explain to my parents why they came home to a lack of beer, why there were cigarettes in the pool, or why their daughter was maimed with a sprained ankle. I didn’t get the job (which I was wheel chaired to, mind you). I still attribute my poor interviewing abilities to a lack of confidence and a wounded ego. My fabrication about tripping over a pinecone while jogging was likely not the most convincing lie the interviewers had ever heard either.

How I forgave Danny so immediately I’ll never know, but I certainly thought again about taking on a more responsible lifestyle.  We were entering adulthood, after all. I couldn’t be flying to interviews with sprained ankles derived from drunken stupors, throwing parties recklessly, taking Irish Car bombs in the middle of the week. I took a vow to begin living more responsibly, and changing my negligent collegiate ways…

Four years later, I have at least kept the promise to keep flying to job interviews with sprained ankles to a minimum. Danny and I still live in the same building here in San Francisco, and Irish car bombs and reckless parties still seem to be a fairly regular occurrence. Other than an accidental sock to the jaw and a mild abrasion from a high five gone wrong, we’ve kept the injuries to an overall minimum. We may be growing older, but not up, and I’ve decided the only way to live life is to be young at heart (and ideally injury free) for a while…