SORRY MOM & DAD: I’m getting too old for Netflix and chill
I’m getting too old for Netflix and chill. I want Amazon Prime and commitment.
Don’t get it twisted, there’s nothing wrong with a Netflix and chill session. Who isn’t game for getting your nipples licked while simultaneously binge-watching the first season of “Reading Rainbow”? (LeVar Burton, can I get a high-five?) It’s just that Netflix and chill is one D away from Netflix and child. No thank you!
The repercussions of fun pastimes, such as Netflix and chill, is why I attempt to calm it down a little bit as I’m getting older. Hangovers, hot-tub-threesomes with people who lie about not being from Mexico, and waking up in a Philadelphia parking garage get old after a while.
That’s why I decided to trade a Saturday of day-drinking, and then passing out, by my pool with kayaking at the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania one weekend this past August. And I was pretty damn proud. I felt mature. I felt like a responsible adult in his late twenties.
My friend Mike decided to come along. He’s usually my partner in crime when my weekends result in hangovers, hot-tub-threesomes with people who lie about not being from Mexico, and waking up in a Philadelphia parking garage. We were about to have a fun, relaxing, uneventful, mature day of recreational activity, or so we thought.
We started the day off by meeting for breakfast at Chick’s Diner in Scranton.
“I found a place that will rent kayaks for the day for only 25 bucks,” I said.
“That’s not bad at all,” Mike replied.
After breakfast, we embarked on a 2 and a half hour road trip to kayak for the day.
“Where the heck are we?” Mike asked when we finally arrived to the designated address of the kayak rental place. “This looks like someone’s house.”
Then some Asian lady came outside to greet us. “Are you here to rent kayak?” she asked. “I go get my husband.”
While she went to get her husband, the garage door opened, and 20 kayaks were seen. Then an Amish girl, who appeared to be in her early 20s, walked outside with two children. One looked just like her. The other looked just like the Asian woman. Then the husband came out.
Oh my God, I thought to myself. There’s some weird sister wife situation going on here. And their master, husband, cult leader, or whatever they call him, runs a kayak rental business from there garage.
“How do we get a kayak to the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania?” I asked, since we were clearly in a neighborhood.
“The Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania?” he asked back. “That’s about 2 and a half hours north, in Pines Creek.”
“Then where are we?” Mike asked.
“This is Penn’s Creek,” he answered.
I Googled the wrong town.
We couldn’t even make the best of the situation by taking the kayaks to the nearest body of water because we drove in Mike’s car, which was too small to carry two kayaks.
“We’re making it to the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania,” I told Mike. Let’s go!”
So we drove off while the Amish-looking girl and the Asian woman went back inside to probably obey their master, husband, cult leader or whatever they call him.
Two and a half hours later, we made it to a kayak rental place at the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania, but we were told the water was too low to take a kayak.
“But you can rent a tube,” we were told.
We drove too long to not indulge in a mature, sober recreational activity.
“Fine, we’ll tube,” we said.
Then we hopped in a van to be dropped off somewhere. Literally 30 seconds later, the van stopped.
“Okay, here you go,” we were told. “Just cross the street and you’ll find the stream.”
“But we’re probably less than half a mile away,” I said. “We’ll be back in ten minutes.”
He assured us it would longer, then handed us tubes that I could have floated in at my pool at home.
The water was so low that we kept getting stuck, practically walking through a river the entire time, holding a tube.
On the ride home, I realized maybe this was a sign that I’m just meant to get wild on the weekends. There’s enough people in AA to be sober for me and Mike, or at least to pretend to be at meetings. Maybe I’m meant to be hungover on weekends, have hot-tub-threesomes with people who lie about not being from Mexico, or wake up in a Philadelphia parking garage. Sorry, Mom and Dad.
Maybe, for now, finally laughing at the jokes on “Frasier” is my way of acting more grown up. We are who we are for a reason, and accepting that is perhaps the most intoxicating rush we can ever feel. So be who you are, don’t apologize for it, and feel the rush.
Reach Justin at 570-991-6652 and follow him on Instagram and SnapChat @justinadambrown.