May 15, 2005
Thought I was too old to go out and really party hard, but last night proved me wrong. This morning, of course, is another story.
Last night started out on a false note. We were all tetchy; or at least S and I were, not used to be out so late – 10.30 pm – and both of us hadn’t had a fag the entire day. So, puffing frantically and changing gears with a vengeance we made our way across town, with green glances at M and fiance in very-cool new car that THEY BOUGHT TOGETHER. Halfway through I realised an infinite truth – the reason why we didn’t go into town to party more often was the reason we always put it off: it’s too bloody far off, and we aren’t spring chickens anymore.
When we got there, after parking down the long street and being accosted by a Tibetan type trying to sell us ganja, we discovered that there was a line to get in. A LINE! Like bloody school – have actually waited to get into a place more than half a second only once in my life, and we ended up giving up and not going there anyway. Luckily, Ch knew someone in charge of the place, and we snuck in before most people. When we got in there were these overenthusiastic blonde women, doing a promotion for tequila, in a cheap bid to con people into buying what they didn’t want by virtue of being blonde and leggy. In half an hour, we were tired and wanted to sit down, or go home. I looked at the women with long, swingy hair and short skirts and thought that the very idea of putting on a skirt and heels, even though my legs are mysteriously hairless (I waxed them a week and a half ago for no reason other than the fact that there was an offer in the parlour to do the whole thing for 90 bucks), was enough to make me vomit. I’ve regressed to a new low in that sense; not only is a skirt too much hassle (luckily half of them don’t fit me, but neither do my jeans) but now even heels are too much to bear, and I’ve taken to going out in the same cheerful sandals I use to roam the streets and go to the bathroom in.
However, two things down, everything seemed to get incredibly funny. We turned around and stared at some guys and then burst out laughing for no apparent reason. There were scores of very weird single men, trying to stand near us and grin madly while bobbing their heads as if they were having a blast. I identified four of them:
1) The starer: Short skinny runt, who cut through our little group, then turned around and stared, supposedly broodingly in my general direction, for say, three minutes, then turned back and walked off. He kept reappearing and staring occasionally.
2) The lurker: This was very creepy type who hung around the entire evening, not saying a word or even staring very obviously, but just being there. For about five minutes, everyone assumed that he was a friend of a friend, but very quickly became abundantly clear that he was just your average creep.
3) The blower: Intermittent type who would blow out my cigarette every time I tried to light it, possibly in the hope that I would then, hapless, ask for his help/lighter. Something of an enforced damsel-in-distress ploy, which obviously was doomed to failure because guy was balding and pot-bellied and victim is getting married.
4) The dancer: Guy in tight shirt who danced in vicinity frenetically, grinned manically and then finally gathered up the courage to ask for a drag of someone’s cigarette. The traditional move is to ask for a light; asking for a drag is not on because the original owner of cigarette would not want to put her lips around same thing that someone she doesn’t know from Adam has sucked on a minute ago. Typically, when he returned cigarette, (there was a doubt he was every going to for three minutes), it was flung pointedly to the floor and crushed underfoot.
So, as I was saying, there were some v.creepy guys around, probably due to the fact that this supposedly 80s place has begun to play the mandatory Hindi set. However, there were also some nice ones, like the Brit guy who gave us 250 bucks of his coupons and didn’t want anything in return (Unfortunately, I spilled half the beautiful free cocktail down the back of L’s shirt).
At some point, we were so high that some of us were falling down – literally. We danced to all the silly 60s music and relived our college days. We hugged and said sentimental things, and laughed at nothing in particular. We did group dances to Abba songs. Just another of those nights on the town, which ended up with me driving stone drunk all the way back, only to lie in bed, fervently hoping to sleep, and ending up throwing up in the bathroom sink.
My thoughts five years on:
1. Clearly, five years ago I was already slowing down – reluctant to do a long drive to party, to dress up etc. Today, I’m a sad excuse for a nearly-30-year-old. Nights like these area once a year occurrence, if that.
2. Cigarettes were apparently very important to me at that time. Even now, crazy nights like these somehow involve cigarettes.
3. That was one memorable night. All of us had terrible hangovers. Towards the end of that night, a certain someone kept complaining that one leg was shorter than the other, and we kept telling her to shut up, that she was drunk. The next day, her mom pointed out that the heel of one of her shoes had completely come off!