Strobe lights were flashing, speakers were bumping, clothing was skimpy, and a scent filled the air that could only come from a cheap smoke machine. Yes, last night, I was inside a club for the first time since my college days. Not only did I feel that my leggings and zebra print tank top were the equivalent to going out in a Snuggie, it also made a 25 year-old woman feel closer to 65.
Re-entering the bar scene has made me realize how easy I had it in college. "Going out" in Bellingham meant putting on your best Boundary Bay sweatshirt, your least-muddy pair of Old Navy flip flops, and going down to The Beaver. You meet up with drinking buddies, sharing free popcorn all night, while yelling at Don the bartender to hurry up with your $2 pitchers of Pabst. You'd leave the place at 2:30 A.M. smelling of deep-fried macaroni and booze, but you left good and hammered, with fuzzy memories of chugging $4 Long Islands. Even at the "dance club" in Bellingham, I was able to get away wearing a hoodie and jeans.
Going out clubbing in Seattle is a whole different story. I thought I was dressed well enough to fit in, but I stick out like a sore thumb amongst members of the Ho Train. Women wear boyshort underwear and bralette's underneath mesh bodysuits. You might fit in if you decide to dress more conservatively in a tight silk dress that pushes your boobs up to your nostrils, topped with a sparkling tiara, of course. What was I thinking going out in cotton?
Drinks are free if you pretend to be interested in the creep who's eye-f***ing you from across the room, otherwise get ready to spend $40 for your slight buzz. Don't worry-I went with my boyfriend so I didn't have to deal with this, but I saw it happening all around me. God forbid if my relationship takes a turn for the worst. So much for trying to be a progressive, independent woman in 2009. Shit.
If the eye-f***ing were visible from an aerial view, it would look like a laser beam alarm system at a museum; several rays of alarm-triggering looks, shooting in every which direction. I kept walking through these gazes, intercepting laser beams of lust, accidentally becoming the laser's new target. But then I'd dodge the beam by ducking behind a 21 year-old that may as well have been wearing tassels. "Forget that girl in the Snuggie!" Attention diverted.
I will admit, the only good thing that happened was the music. Since June 25, 2009, Michael Jackson homages are statistically proven to occur once every five seconds in clubs around the US. If only they would play the Free Willy Theme Song. I might be able to dress up in tassels for that.
If last night taught me anything, it was that I am not comfortable trying to fit in with the young whippersnappers of the millennium. I don't care about the latest fashion trend, or the hippest place that sells purple drinks at the cost of your first born child. I'd rather go hiking for the day, and come back to the Beav and throw back a pitcher of Pabst.
Now it's Friday night, and you know what I'm going to do? Go watch a movie on my laptop and go to bed early. I need to catch up from the sleep I missed out on last night. Don't worry. I'll sleep in late (7:30 am) and go on my morning run. I'm content in my "elderly" ways.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but clubs will never hurt me*.
*stay tuned for injuries I inflict on others inside clubs :o)
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