Girls Night Out

My Friday night out on the town with my fellow Montrealers:

First off, a little background on one of the woman ... J and I have been friends since we were ten years old in the fifth grade. The history we share is fairly astounding in its sheer volume. We've bonded through all the rituals of growing up -- first kisses, first time getting drunk, first time puking from getting drunk, first time smoking pot together, first time going out to a nightclub together (at the tender age of fourteen), first time having sex ... the list is endless. We were co-conspirators in our lies to parents and teachers alike, we logged in many hours of being generally goofy and silly, we've gone on countless shopping expeditions and swapped clothing, we've gone to rock concerts together (after lining up for hours to buy the tickets) and screamed ourselves silly, we've passed each other endless notes during class and in the school hallway, we've spent half a dozen summers at the neighbourhood pool trying to catch glimpses of our respective crushes in their half-naked glory. We cut classes together, we helped each other put on makeup and select appropriate clothing, we've got albums full of silly pictures we've taken of each other. We've gone biking, swimming and skiing together year after year. We've taken dance and exercise classes together and joined our first gym together. We were friends for long enough to be able to communicate just by giving each other certain looks.

In keeping with our past, J. proposed that we go downtown and party like we used to when we were teenagers. (Since Montreal's age of majority is eighteen, and the general atmosphere there is far more relaxed -- i.e. no carding -- we used to go clubbing every weekend during grades 10 and 11 -- our last two years of highschool). Of course, downtown Toronto pales by and far in comparison to that of Montreal, but we knew we could have a good time anywhere.

We had dinner at a bar/restaurant which turned out to be quite the meat market. Shortly after we sat down and ordered our food, a waitress showed up bearing a chocolate martini and a man's business card, both of which she placed in front of me and proceeded to sing the praises of the "gentleman" who'd sent them over with his compliments (he was sitting somewhere out of view so we weren't able to check him out). Later, the guy came over and introduced himself. Well, actually, he was quite forward so it was hardly your conventional introduction. He was very cocksure of himself and even went so far as to suggest sex on the tabletop or bar.

Herein lies my constant dilemma. Having always struggled with self-identity, I've thought long and hard about how I should be describing myself to others. Don't forget I've grown up in the shadow of being Dr. E's daughter through many of my formative years, or D's little sister. So I've had to take a good hard look at myself and figure out who I am quite apart from these distinctions. When I used to co-lead a support group, I always found it interesting how people often described themselves in peripheral terms of age, partner, family, profession, etc. To simply tell someone your name and allow that person to draw conclusions about yourself based on what he can see and feel, apparently, is considered unconventional and perhaps unacceptable. I've never been one to say "Hi. My name is C and I'm so-and-so's friend, girlfriend, wife, etc.". Generally, I just say "Hi. I'm C". I figure that if someone wants to, they can ask questions about what is important to them. Usually, they're the conventional questions like "How old are you? What do you do for a living? Where do you live? Where are you from?" I've never been approached with "What's your favourite book? What kind of music do you like to listen to? What are your feelings on religion, politics, poverty, world peace, feminism, etc.?" But I suppose we all have our own sorting rules.

In any event, I've always wondered if when approached by a member of the opposite sex, I should immediately announce my marital status. I've always considered it rude, presumptious and conceited on my part to assume that a man was speaking to me because he was only romantically (or sexually) interested. I've been told that I am naive and stupid, or worse, a tease. But since I have a large number of long-term male friends with whom I haven't exchanged anything more than a chaste kiss on the cheek (of our faces), I can't help thinking they're wrong.

So the question is, at what point should I be telling someone I'm not on the market? In this particular case, the subject came up quick on the heels of the man's introduction/proposition (he wanted a good three hours with me, during which time he claimed he would take my breath away). However, the fact that I was married with three kids and very obviously quite a bit older than him didn't seem to be much of a deterrent. I guess nothing matters horizontally and with the lights out ...

After dinner, we proceeded to a club which had a very long line-up outside. Now, when J. and I were sixteen and at the height of our clubbing days, we actually had courtesy cards for a number of the popular nightclubs. I knew most of the code names for the doormen and bartenders at some of the hottest clubs. Therefore, we never waited in line to get into a club, because of course, only losers stand shivering out in the cold for long periods of time. So queuing up now that we were older, wiser and didn't need to stuff our bra to emulate cleavage was definitely not an option. We sent in G., our tall, slim, blonde and gorgeous friend to oil our way into the door without having to grease the palms of the bouncer (the unspoken rule being that if you have to pay to get in, then you're just as much, if not more of a loser as those in line). Two minutes later, we entered into the packed club with the music pulsing at an ear splitting level.

It was very remniscent in some ways of our younger days. We danced for hours, took turns buying rounds and just tried to keep the wolves at bay. At times I felt as though we were extras from the movie A Night at the Roxbury, because the general M.O. of the guys present, after having scoped out a girl they thought might be interesting, appeared to be to stand close by on the dance floor and basically bump and rub their body repeatedly against hers, occasionally putting their hands on her various body parts as though to steady themselves.

One guy spiced his bump and grind routine up with inane comments like "You're a really good dancer" shouted into my ear. He then pulled me aside and suggested that we go out for a drink sometime, and by the way my name is Joe Schmuck, what's yours? Does this routine ever work?

Then before I'd even had a chance to respond, he pulled out his cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open and stood there waiting for me to furnish him with my number. After several unsuccessful attempts to get rid of him (clearly, he had different criteria for dating -- the girl's disinterest not being one of them), I finally said that I didn't give out my number because I'd too many run-ins with psychopaths and while he seemed like a genuinely wonderful person, one just never knew. He assured me that he wasn't a whackjob, that he would only call once, leave a voice mail and wouldn't harass me if I chose not to call him back. Interesting logic -- the fact that I'm not interested in going out with you now isn't enough to stop you from persistently asking for my number, but after I've given you said number, I can then decline to go out with you. It seemed mighty inefficient to me personally; why wait to tell you to go screw yourself when I could do so on the spot? Apparently, he thought I was being witty and commented that I had a great sense of humour.

In the end, I got rid of him by entering his number into my cellphone. I felt mildly guilty doing this because I knew I had no intention of ever calling him and I hate being anything less than forthright and honest. But then again, he was really interfering with my enjoyment level and wouldn't take a hint, so I figured my bad behaviour was somewhat provoked. (Much later when I went to delete his number, I discovered that I must have pressed the wrong buttons or something because he never even made it into my phone book).

It's funny because the general assumption is that everyone at bars and clubs is there solely to meet someone. The concept of a group of women out just to have a few drinks and dance to some really great music in a place that had ambience and atmosphere was inconceivable. At one point, I idly scanned the room and observed all the twenty-something chicks. It was clear that their every action and article of clothing was designed to try and capture a man's attention. I vaguely remembered going out with friends many years ago with the chief goal being an opportunity to flirt with cute guys. I think I was never able to relax and enjoy myself fully because I was always aware of the image I was trying to project to the room at large (fairly unsuccessfully, too, I might add). I wouldn't give anything to go back to those times (although, having the figure and energy of my former twenty-something self might be nice).

All in all we had a blast. Even running into my niece and her friends didn't bother me. I took it as an opportunity to bond with her and bought a round of drinks. Made a mental note though to go to a different club next time so she wouldn't be able to gather any blackmail material.