Dirty Stop-out

Today, I have been nightclubbing.

Technically last night, well it carried across to early this morning, so technically, it was today, but whatever. It amuses me the way my parents refer to the activity as “nightclubbing” rather than the effortlessly hip and cool terminology of the young folks, dropping the superfluous prefix to talk of ‘clubbing’

I don’t really like clubbing.

It’s alright for a bit, have a few laughs, have a few drinks. I go to keep the social wheel whirling, does the soul good to get out once in a while and all that. It’s a way to meet new people, and hey, might as well get my kicks while I’m still young enough to get them. Until I wind up old crazy cat lady alone with the only chance encounters I make are through bridge club or bingo nights. It seems, for my generation, the only way to approach new people is to be so drunk that you don’t need to talk sense. Or talk at all in many cases. Traditional introductions and opening conversations are sooo last millennia. Don’t you know the process? Get trashed, get grabbed, get groped. After all, you may never see them again – I’m not certain whether that’s used as justification or commiseration, or both:

“I may never see him again, I might as well get all I can from it while he’s here”
“I may never see him again, it doesn’t matter that I act like a complete slut”

I suppose it depends on the company one keeps. I’m an old bore, I’m sure, but somehow, I don't need to get so drunk I can't stand straight in order to enjoy myself. I'm insecure and immature, probably, but somehow I don’t need to nab a guy to have a great night. I’m unnecessarily uptight, I’ll bet, but somehow, I don’t need to cheat on my boyfriend to prove that I can still pull. Call me a loser, that doesn’t bother me. I know where I stand, and I’m alright with that.

On the jukebox: Bettie Serveert ~ A Lover I Don't Have To Love