Writing makes everything official, right?
Well, if that’s the case then it’s confirmed – my party days are over.
Not because I’m particularly old or feel out of place in clubs (I still get carded at every doorstep, there’s a few years in me still), but because I’m over it.
My desire. Hope. Excitement. Anticipation.
All gone down the drain with the hundreds (thousands) of dollars I spent on nights out at the same four clubs.
Am I supposed to mourn that period? Have an extravagant send off to mark the end of an era?
Right now, I can’t decide. All I know is that my party girl ways are mostly behind me, now reserved for festivals and the rare spontaneous nights out with my girlfriends.
I didn’t realise at the time that from 20-22 were my golden days – if golden days are supposed to consist of cheap vodka, 4am Maccas runs and spending the majority of my Sundays feeling sorry for myself. Yep, those were the days.
I know a lot of people my age who still do the club scene. And why wouldn’t they? 24 isn’t old. It’s completely normal to be spending this period of life consuming too much alcohol and not enough water.
Am I perhaps, missing out by throwing in the towel now?
I really don’t think so.
You see, the club scene got boring for me not long after I got a boyfriend. And not because I’m boring, rather, the routine no longer appealed or applied to me. Plus, you know, MONEY.
In case you were interested, please see below for a simplified, standard routine on a night out for me and the friends I went to town with.
Organise who’s going with who, and where we’d all be pre-drinking. Fuss over an outfit and attempt to style my hair (no point, really, considering it’d end up trash by 11pm). Scout all social channels to see who was also “going to town”. Meet up with friends. Pre-drink and talk a lot of shit. Avoid paying the taxi fare. Go to the post-pre-drinks club. Consume a lot of cheap, disgusting alcohol there in an hour or less. Maybe go to the casino and casually watch guys throw away the equivalent of 3 weeks’ rent like it’s pocket change. Do some dancing. Pretend to make conversation over the incredibly loud music. Play some pool. Buy more drinks. Go to another club. Rinse. Repeat. Go to the ‘end of night’ club where everyone either dances till the lights turn or or subtly sneaks off with the night’s fling. Stumble outside to grab a $6 slice of pizza, kebab or Maccas nuggets and fries and take a $20 taxi home. Wake up 12 hours later. Mouth feels like tar. Hair smells of 3 different types of smoke. Waterproof mascara has done its job a little too well. Regret how many drinks were mixed. Drown my sorrows in lemonade and Coffee Club chips. Slowly regain a sense of brainpower. Start planning for the weekend ahead.
I have to be honest: writing that down like an itinerary is making me a little nostalgic. But then again, I’m an incredibly nostalgic creature.
I thrive off reminiscing on events and romanticising them. Squashing out the bad in favour of the fortuitous.
Despite how much my liver may or may not have suffered in 24 months, I can’t deny that it was fun.
Until it wasn’t.
The same places played the same music each weekend. The same girls gave you the stink eye from across the room, and the same gross guys tried to chat up your friends.
You’d scan every location, secretly hoping for one of those movie moments where you meet a really great person that you have spontaneous adventures with for the rest of the night (granted, I’ve had about three of those, but 3/100 isn’t great odds). Refusing to join Tinder because you still believed in meeting someone “the old fashioned way.” Okay, maybe the last one is just me.
Perhaps I should be more grateful for my club days, as they ultimately led me to James. We’d been acquaintances – friends even – in school but lost touch once I left. We reconnected by chance on a night when I wasn’t even supposed to be in town. Crazy, huh?
Maybe that’s it. No matter how much time passes, I’ll always be connected to those days in more ways than one. Yes, I’ve always have the hazy memories, the drunken texts in my phone history, the albums of group selfies and catalogue of ruined shoes. But more importantly, I got something, someone, out of it.
I did what many of us were hoping to achieve. I met someone, by chance, who is my person.
So although I happy bid farewell to skulled fire engines in favour of slowly sipped ciders, I get to keep hanging out with someone who is worth all the hangovers in the world.
That’s right. Shit just got real mushy. Hope you’ve got a bucket if you’re reading this on a Sunday xo