The Day After Yesterday

Spent Saturday night with my Montreal girlfriend J. and two of her friends, all of whom blew into town for the weekend. Our goal was to repeat our last fun night out on the town.

After we had dinner, we headed over to a club nearby which the girls were curious about (it had been under renovations on their last visit). This particular club hosts a real mix of clientele of all ages and types. However, since it's far more spacious than the previous club we'd been to, people watching (my favourite activity) was virtually impossible.

The most unfortunate part of this club however, was its DJ. We weren't sure if he suffered from ADD or was just trying to be cool, but he never played a song in its entirety. It was pretty annoying to get lured to the dance floor by a tune you loved, only to have it suddenly changed to some unfamiliar hip hop rap song within forty-five seconds. Talk about switch and bait.

We all love to dance, so we occupied a very busy spot on the periphery of the dance floor for much of the night. Periodically J. would take her camera out and snap pictures of us all. At one point, I wrestled the camera away and tried to get a shot of her. Suddenly, I was approached from behind by two young guys who wanted me to take their picture. One of them even bared a nipple for the money shot. (Not sure why though ... maybe I egged him on? My memory is a little fuzzy on that front). After the picture was taken, the less insane guy (non-nipple flasher) stayed behind and started chatting me up. I wasn't sure if the goal all along had been to approach us, or if the opportunity just arose, but rather than being unfriendly, I decided to keep conversing with him. (See this is how I know I've matured ... many years ago, I more or less told anyone who came within ten feet of me to get lost. Now I assume that life is a series of experiences and that one should just go with the flow).

Very early into our conversation the question of age came up not so subtly ("So how old are you? I know you're not supposed to ask girls this question but ..."), at which point I grinned and told the guy that not only was I probably way older than he thought I was, but that I was also way older than him. Of course, he then went into the whole "No way" routine while sniffing around to find out what I considered to be old. In response to my statement that I was ancient, he then threw out a guess, which turned out to be almost two years younger than my actual age (well, I guess if you're young, anything approaching forty is ghastly). Finally, I put him out of his misery and confessed that I was a couple months shy of thirty-eight, at which point polite flattery made a brief appearance (Gee, the Oil of Olay is really doing its job).

Continuing to fumble his way around in what was actually a very funny and charming young way, he then said "Wow, your parents must be in shock. I mean, almost thirty-eight and unmarried ... they must wonder what's wrong with you". (Yes, imagine that a woman in her late thirties might have elected to remain single. The horror!) I then looked him straight in the eye and deadpanned "What makes you think I'm not married?" The slow and horrifed shock on his face as I flashed him my ring finger and the ensuing "Oh my God" that erupted from his mouth was priceless ... imagine that he'd wasted at least fifteen minutes trying to make nice to an old married hound! Perversely wanting to bump up the torture a notch or two, I then told him that I had three kids. I even considered offering to show him my stretch marks (although surprisingly, I actually don't have any) but since he really was a nice guy, I thought I'd back off a bit and give him a break. I turned the conversation towards his work and not surprisingly, he eventually announced that he was going to go find his friends whom he'd obviously abandoned for what he thought was a twenty-something single chick.

Later on, the same guy did turn up again, emboldened no doubt by a few drinks and perhaps by his friends' advice to investigate the possibility that he'd uncovered a Mrs. Robinson. At one point when he leaned in to say something, I caught a whiff of his breath and observed out loud that he was a smoker (there is an enclosed smoking room in the club -- gorgeous in all respects save and except for the lack of oxygen within), and asked if he was a regular smoker or a social smoker. Eventually, he ended up inviting me to accompany him into the smoking room which I declined to do initially, but then curiosity getting the better of me, changed my mind.

Now, I don't want to complain, but for some reason, the music that is miked into the smoking room isn't the DJ's selection, but something more along the heavy rock, head banging variety. Is that a stereotype about smokers? Intrigued by the people in the room, and taking it all in visually as we entered, I was unfortunately looking in all directions but down towards my feet. So, I missed the fact that there were a couple of shallow steps down to the main floor. Oops ... I tripped and hurtled headlong into the room, making quite the suave entrance. Young smoker dude caught up to me and laughingly enquired if I was okay, then hurried to assure me (without prompting) that he didn't think anyone had noticed. Oh right, so it was just my imagination that the bouncer was checking me out, undoubtedly making a mental note to spread the word to the bartenders not to serve me any more alcohol (for the record, I'd only had two drinks that night, so wasn't drunk in the least).

After about five minutes of inhaling the special mix of carbon monoxide and nicotine within the room, I'd pretty much reached my limit. We burst out of that room into the fresh clean air. Having exhausted all possible topics of conversation, we then looked for a graceful manner in which to go our separate ways. Points scored for the guy who said something along the lines of "Well, it's too bad you're married, because ... yadda yadda yadda" and then hugged and kissed me chastely on both cheeks good-bye. It was an experience that reminded me that not everyone who frequented clubs was slimy, desperate or on the make. (Although based on what took place as we tried to collect our jackets and file out of the club, I think he was in the minority).

After seeing my friends back to their hotel where we were invited by some army guys to come up to their hotel room for a party (wondering if they thought we might have been hookers since we were hanging around on the lobby couches and party was code for something else) I made my way home on very tired feet (I'd danced for about three hours non-stop).

As I lay in bed in the minutes before I passed out from exhaustion, I wondered what appeal clubbing had for me these days. In my early twenties, I went in search of a good time partying with my friends. Also, I think the possibility of seeing the cute crush of the moment, factored into the excitement. I'm not entirely sure what it is that I like about going out. Admittedly, I love to dance and can't get enough of that in my life, but I'm not certain if that's the sole impetus behind my girls' nights out.

Back in university, there was a group of post-graduates in their late twenties who frequented our Friday night college pub. Most of the other regulars who flocked to the pub lived in residence close by and we all looked forward to the once-weekly event during which we could drink our faces off and blow off a little steam. The post-grads came because that particular pub represented a fun time in their lives, perhaps even the ultimate time, and they were reluctant to let it go. Setting aside the fact that they appeared somewhat ridiculous hitting on girls who were ten years younger than them, it always struck me as kind of sad that the highlight of one's life should be the hours spent in a university refectory converted to a Friday night drinking hole.

But now I can't help but wonder if I'm not doing something along the same lines. Of course to me, it feels significantly different. I don't go out for the same reasons that I did in my youth and I don't react the same way that I did then either. But am I holding onto an activity that should have been laid to rest many moons ago? At one point should one be letting go of a facet of one self?