So I got invited to this swanky party. You know the ones, where the champagne and celebrity sightings are flowing like hot lava? Anyway it promised to be uber fetch and after a long few weeks of werewolfing myself I was more than ready to turn this pumpkin back in the other direction before the clock struck midnight. Only problem was the ball didn't start 'till 10 o'clock -- at night.
I remember scrolling through the email invite, nodding my head in anticipation as each detail sounded right up my alley. Black tie? Check. Sexy hotel rooftop? Checkiggity check. Surprise musical guests? Tick tick boom! By the end of the message my outfit had already been planned.
Then I saw the time doors were supposed to open and my heart sank into its comfy chair because its feet were already hurting. The last time I jammed past 10 pm on purpose my black stretchy pants from Express -- "party pants" we called 'em -- were still in heavy rotation.
When did I became such a stick-in-the-mud sleepy head with bunions?
My girls still tell the tale of that one time when I showed up at an East Village bar with exactly $5 dollars in my wallet and proceeded to get violently drunk for the next four hours. Or the time when I went to club sporting a backless halter string crop top (adjectives that no longer go together) and super low rise jeans in February only to have my puffy jacket stolen from coat check and no money for a cab.
Or the time I hopped a Chinatown bus from DC to New York immediately after a full day of work and went directly from the street drop-off to French Connection for a new dress and then proceeded directly to a New Year's Eve bash because I wanted to get in free. I was that girl, ya'll.
Man those days were fun times. But what I've come to realize, at the ripe ol' age of 32, is that they were hardly the times. Whomever turned club into a verb is an evil genius, but she's also probably heading up a Twerkers Anonymous group meeting in the basement of a bombed out Wet Seal as we speak. Because after the woo-hoos have died down and that last Long Island Ice Tea has come up, the once sparkly club turns into a dirty windowless airplane cabin that never left the tarmac.
Don't get me wrong -- I love a good dance break. I can sip on the same drink, slip on the flats I had hiding in my clutch, and belt out Ghost Town's DJs' "My Boo" with the best of them. But by 10pm or so I'm already looking for the nearest emergency exit. My feet have an expiration date now. And add to that that there's never anywhere good to sit down.
These days when I hear "Let's go out," my brain's Universal Translator immediately interprets that as, "Let's do a $4 dollar happy hour, have all the merriment from 6 - 8 and then get home in time to put on our jammies and Tweet each other about 'True Blood.'" Doesn't that sound like a good time? I mean look how much fun we're having!
Trust, I am still the girl hounding the DJ to play the entire repertoire of Homecoming '97. I will twist and shout and maybe even do a shot of "something girly" if peer pressured. But when the proverbial street lights come on in the form of my iPhone striking late evening, "ret' to go" doesn't even begin to describe my mood. I have to go. Least I turn into the Helenabeast who only understands, "The cab's outside, babe."
I'm sure all this is a function of age on top of the realization that the party ain't going anywhere. There's always one to be had, especially in my dreams. So pour some out for the homie the next time you're kicking it well past the witching hour or do it for yourself because you never know when they might retire your backless halter string crop top.