I’m getting to be of a certain age so these days, the cool thing to say is, “I would much prefer to lounge around the house on a Saturday night, while eating noodles and watching netflix”. And yes, that is so true for me (shout out to Orange is the New Black!), but last Saturday I went out all night and I was LIVING MY LIFE!
There’s something about a hole-in-the-wall bar that serves drinks in mason jars and bumps Biggie Smalls on the speakers that feels so comfortable. I’m not trying to throw shade, but I can’t stand those places where people go just to be seen – with the bottle service, and VIP booth, and all of that madness. I like someplace where I can just dip it and do it until I’m sweatier than Ariana Grande when you take a picture of the right side of her face, youknowwhatI’msayin?
So last Saturday, my cousin and I happened upon a place that seemed cool enough. The idea was to have one drink and do some body rolls for a song or two. But then they served our whiskey sours in mason jars, and the DJ started playing the Fugees so 3 drinks and 2 shots, and 3-6 Mafia and 2 Chainz later, we were getting down with our bad selves! The music was great, the crowd looked fly (although I do have a fashion tip for all my ladies: if you’re walking like a newborn giraffe in your heels, maybe you should try flats, or a sensible wedge, or just stay at home tonight), and we felt like two steel town girls on a Saturday night, dancing like we’ve never danced before.
The following morning, I woke up to a very comforting presence. I felt a sweet breath on my neck. And though my ears were ringing, I heard a familiar voice that was full of loving intention. It was my boyfriend and he was whispering: “Hey, can you get up and make some breakfast?”. So I did because:
a) I was still drunk and therefore easily influenced to do things that I didn’t want to do.
b) I knew that if I didn’t get up to make breakfast, buddy-boy would end up eating a can of Redbull
As I prepared the meal, it hit me that I am over thirty-fucking-years old because it was a complete disaster! I dropped the eggs, I couldn’t open the oil, and I touched the hot pan and didn’t feel anything. Finally, when I couldn’t gather the energy and coordination to bring the plates to the table, I just gave up and sobbed: “I can’t do this anymore! LIFE! WHY ARE YOU HERE?!”.
The whole day was a waste, and though I had a list of responsibilities to responsibilitize, I really couldn’t do much more than move from the couch to the bed to the couch to the bed to the bathroom floor. I felt like Dante’s Inferno, when he was going through that circle of hell that was reserved for thirty year olds, trying to throw down like they were still twenty. Or something. I don’t actually know that story and am simply referencing it to sound smarter.
Having said all of this, if given the chance, I would do it all over again! I’m a glutton for punishment, I love the nightlife, I love to boogie on a disco high. If you see a sixty year old dude doing the butterfly on a crowded dance floor to an Elephant Man remix, please come say hello to me! It’s like the lesson I learned from watching the classic American movie, Coyote Ugly: always stay true to yourself. Because “you can try to resist, try to hide from my kiss, but you know, yeah you know that you can’t, CAN’T FIGHT THE MOONLIGHT!”.