I had no idea that hosting a party would catapult me into middle age faster than a Chuck Norris roundhouse kick.

That’s right. I threw a party last weekend, and now I’m an adult.

And by ‘adult’ I mean ‘someone who doesn’t want to clean up after a night of other peoples’ drunken debauchery ever, ever again.’

It seemed like a great idea last semester when my roommate and I started planning for this party. We wanted to kick off the new semester and have all of our friends together, working toward common goals – to dress as pirates and use the word ‘booty’ incessantly.

By the time the party rolled around, though, I was on medication for a sinus infection. I spent most of the night directing people to the alcohol or the oven (to make tater tots, of all things) or cleaning up. Even after everyone left, the muddy footprints and sticky drink spills stayed behind. So I’m sure you understand why I’ve developed the attitude of a 47-year-old.

The next day I called my mom to tell her about it.

“My house is kind of trashed, Mom,” I said.

“It must’ve been a good party, then,” she said.

“Sure, except for the fact that someone projectile-vomited in my bathroom. Other than that, it was great,” I said.

And then she laughed at me in a way that only a mother can – the kind of mother who is secretly relishing the thought of her daughter tiptoeing around a stranger’s vomit in her own bathroom.

“Oh, you won’t get a chance to laugh at me again. I’ve retired from those parties. I’m only going to do dinner parties now, and we’re going to drink wine and eat cheese and discuss politics,” I said.

“I think it sounds like you’re maturing,” she said.

“I just don’t know how they got the throw-up all over the wall, the toilet and the bathtub. I almost expected it to be on the ceiling. They must’ve been trying to create some kind of pattern. That’s it! The puke was a cry for help in a language I didn’t understand. That’s the only way it makes sense,” I said.

Maturity wasn’t exactly what I was aiming for when I threw a party, but I thought about it and realized that there were many signs leading up to this moment.

First of all, I’m a senior and of legal drinking age, which means I’m physically decrepit in the college crowd.

Second, I drink English Breakfast tea with cream in the mornings before school, and I regularly wake up before 8 or 9 a.m.

And, to make things worse, a few weeks ago I found myself discussing stock options with a friend on the Internet. The conversation did include phrases like “when I’m a bazillionaire,” but still, it was about investing for our retirements.

I guess I’m reading into this too much. I know I’m not really 21 going on 40.

But you know what?

From now on, if you want to attend a party at my house, you have to bring a rotisserie chicken and rosemary potatoes.

And there will be no keg.