Wednesday, April 17, 2013

shut up and keep dancing

Let’s be real here: clubbing/partying …can we all just admit that it’s kinda passĂ©? No? Okay I’ll be the only one to admit it here. Fine, maybe I don’t drink enough to stop thinking about my prepubescent surroundings. Maybe my three-year old discounted Zara coat with the torn out pockets, soggy foreskin-esque sleeves, and missing faux-fur (that’s right, it’s not even real fur and it’s still missing cause I tore it off cause it was balding) collar is kind of a buzz kill:

Coat-check girl: "Describe your coat"

Me: "It’s the umm, Zara one."

Coat-check girl: "The one with the worn out elbows? The one missing its belt, with the filling spewing out of the loose stitching?"

Me: "Yes, that’s the one. Perfect, thanks."

Anyway, lately I just haven’t been feeling it. I can’t remember the last time I was "lost" in the "zone", letting the "music sway me", "drunk off the beat", with the "DJ" "saving me tonight". While most girls are getting all:

I'm mostly thinking:

That's right. Most of the time, when I'm at a club, I'm hungry.  Sometimes I think about what the people around me have eaten. Like, did those hoes on the riser eat a balanced meal? I just wonder. And then I think: okay, get through two more hours and you can have a Jos. Louis. Yeah, fine, you can have the jumbo size. Just shut up and keep dancing.

When I go out, I'm judgmental. I can't help but wonder who the women around me are trying to attract with that strip of tape connecting their genitalia to their nipples. I can't help but imagine what daytime job the gentleman mimicking felatio-with-reacharound occupies. Perhaps he works with children. But you know, at least that part is manageable with more booze. Three more shots of vodka and I'm all hahahahaha shut up you don't even omg. 

I never seem to get it right with the outfits. I don't do mesh, I don't do platforms, I basically don't wear anything that people would call 'sexy'.  What can I say I charm with my personality thank you everyone for reading this part.  I wear blazers, or silk tops, or a *gasp* mini dress (balanced out with full sleeves), or, sometimes, I'll go there and I'll just wear a full-on blouse.  Yeah.  So okay, maybe I shouldn't be judging genitalia nipple tape, but the point is: I just don't fit in aesthetically. At all. And I am reminded of that every time I go out.  One time I tried to do the headband hipster thing, and put some staples in my mouth for good measure. It looked like this. It didn't work out.

Listen man, I'm poor. I'm poor the way people who pay rent are poor. I'm poor like I eat dinner at home and pre-drink and pre-party and budget for a cab (as a very last resort) for a week.  I don't want a kumquat truffle bellini for eighty hundred million dollars, and I certainly won't be whipping out my hard-earned $20 bill to secure Smirnoff Ice bottle service.  Do you know what you can get with $20?? How about two trays of free-run chicken breasts?  How about kale, bananas, almond milk, and flax seeds? Let's take it to the sweeter side:  like pretty much five cupcakes, half a Starbucks latte (getitbecausetheyarepriceylol), how about PASTA FOR A WEEK COMPLETE WITH THE GOOD KIND OF CHEESE? How about I just stop because I'm pretty sure everyone in their right mind is thinking right now: my god, how could I have been so blind? You're welcome. So all that is to say, I don't mind partying when I am dragged out, but I'm not one of those "haha I lost $80 this weekend, whatever, I don't know" gals.  Give me my change, and here is your fifteen percent tip. Thank you.

When I'm boogying down, most of the time, I'm tired.  Running tires my legs out, and when the clock reaches that unnatural time of night when you should be like 40% into your REM cycle and instead I am grinding my pelvis into a railing, my eyes get a wittle sweepy.  Everyone around me is super psyched out and doing that super cool head-bopping thang and I have  to look away every five minutes because I'm yawning like a maniac and can't let anyone see, but then when everyone's watching I'm all "LET'S DO THIS IT IS SO AWESOME AND COOL THAT WE ARE HERE LET'S NOT EVER STOP but oh shoot soon it will be last call so if anyone is tired at all, I don't mind umm..leaving.."  Yes, that's right. I'm 26, and I'm tired. Perhaps if I were even remotely interested in any of the star-crossed suitors surrounding me on any particular night, I'd be energized by my hopes of having them beck at my bosom.  Alas, I don't give a shit, and I pretty much just want bacon.

And that's another thing: dancing isn't just about dancing anymore. It has now become an exercise of fear and manoeuvering my head so as to avoid making any eye contact with anyone of the opposite sex. Why? Because otherwise, I'm bound to feel someone's Cheetos-covered fingers gripping my wrist ten minutes into the first rendition of "Sweet Caroline".  So there I usually am, thrashing my head about like a misplaced raver, and hoping nobody takes my empty handedness as a sign of welcoming their sloppy approaches. Barf.
One of the worst things about a club is the washroom. The one thing more aggressive than the puke-and-diarrhea-covered stall jackpot I seem to stumble upon every single god-damn time (and I have yet to win the lottery so go figure) is the mirror.  The mirror: the only entity in the club that tells it like it is.  I, for one, enjoy being  unaware of my sweaty cowlick, but when I'm alone in that washroom and I see myself, and hear the music blasting through the door, I just think What are you doing here?  And then I look at the faucets and wonder who designed them, because I'd like to buy a new faucet sometime, and it would be good to see what's out there IRL, you know? 

Oh, and lastly, as if to hand you a final "thanks for comin' out" loot bag of shit, the clubbing experience always leaves me with a painful aftertaste in the form of photos. "Photos from last night..." shudder. I am not a party girl kind of poser. I find the whole thing awkward and pretty much like a stage production where we all act like we're having 400% more fun than we actually are, and really, at the end of the day, I always end up looking like this:


Sick dance moves (with a fist, coming to beat me hopefully)

Okay so clubbing isn't the worst thing in the world if you can get your act together and not look around you too much.  If you are ever invited out and, like me, can't find the motivation to go hike your leg up over some random stranger's shoulder to Kid Cudi, just think of your post-clubbing reward: bacon. Bacon will never make you do things you don't want to do.

1 comment:

  1. I just died. hahahaha oh my god. this is wonderful.