Last night I went “clubbing” with some friends, because someone was turning 30 and I apparently wanted to pretend that clubs don’t force me to immediately blackout and run home, leaving me awake in my apartment far too early the next day with a slew of texts from my (drunk) friends that are like, “R U ALIVE?!”, “I hope UR alive?”, “DID YOU GET SVU’D?!?!” It’s the club’s fault, y’all.
ANYWAY, because I haven’t been to a New York club in at least several years, I sat in my bathroom last night trying to think about what sort of stories I had to scream-tell a friend-adjacent person I’d inevitably end up fake-talking to while at the club. Back in the day, I was pretty good at clubs. I was 24ish, skinny enough to fit in dresses that were the length of the shirts I wear now and I had ample time and patience for my hair and makeup. Guys would come up to me and be all, “hey. I’m Greg. What do you do?” and I’d sigh, all bored at their politeness and be like, “NOTHING” and then dance on Austin to some Lil’ Wayne song. I’m pretty sure I was winning clubs back then.
Last night I was watching Empire (BECAUSE THAT SHOW IS BASICALLY HEAVEN YOU GUYS ITS SO GOOD) on the couch in a couple of our gross old towels, lamenting to bf that I had to go socialize with people, and trying to mentally prepare myself for choosing a club outfit. The right choice would have been my “Nikki Minaj” dress, as I like to call it, which is basically just tight black dress with some mesh in the front that shows more of my boobs than I’m comfortable with. The choice I made was to wear my usually stylish trouser pants with a blue, loose tank top, because then I didn’t have to spend the entire night pulling my dress down and also my bra (yes, I have only one) is dirty, so I needed to be able to wear my substitute bra, which is just an under-tank with a shelf bra in it. And my shelf bra is navy and the dress is black, so like, I’d basically be breaking all fashion rules by combining them. Because the person who wears a shelf bra to the club clearly cares about fashion rules.
I digress, because the whole point of this post is that I no longer come equipped with club-ready topics. As I was strapping myself into my shelf bra and looking in the mirror, going, “this is kind of makeup on my face?” I didn’t spend enough time thinking about the meaningless topics I’d need to cover with my new fake club friends.
Club topics need to be short, easily understood (even if your listener is drunk and hears 1/3rd of the words you’re yelling), and relatable to anyone, because you’re not likely to meet your friend-soulmate at the club. Club conversations are like:
- omg, that guy is so hot
- omg, that girl is SO drunk
- omg, this drink is SOSO bad
- omg, you’re like my fucking SOULMATE right now do you wanna do a shot?
- omg, that shot was SO bad!
- omg, I LOVE THIS SONG LETS DANCE
But, last night after telling a group of 40-somethings from New Jersey that they totally had Kelly Ripa arms and that they gave me hope for future me bearing children and still looking hot (at least I’m a nice drunk?) I found myself in the club, wholly unequipped. As it turns out, having things I care about in my life and being drunk at a club do not make me a good club person. Because I’m pretty sure my conversations were like:
- omg, the sink in my pre-war apartment clogs like, every month, and I just want it to stop. u know?
- omg, so I was on WebMD the other day and I either have tendonitis or I’ve fractured the front part of BOTH ankles
- omg, this drink is SO overpriced for what it is, like, their well gin isn’t even Hendricks
- omg, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about our hiring process at work and how we could be more inclusive to women because I think right now we unconsciously select for men
- omg, I USED TO LOVE THIS SONG LETS DANCE – OW, MY TENDONITIS
I woke up this morning on the wrong side of the bed (literally, bf was sleeping on my side and it was BIZARRE), face full of smeared makeup and my stomach with the sort of dead undigested food feeling I have after eating not one, but two slices of probably toxic dollar slice pizza from the place across the street from my apartment, meaning I drunk-person Irish exited the club sometime before 4 AM.
At least I have all my stuff.
Peace, love and the “pizza” that’s going to live in my body forever,