So, Legs is getting married next month and this weekend we took her out and showed her a good time, bachelorette-party style.
THAT'S WHAT GIRLS DO.
It had been awhile since I'd slapped on a pair of four-inch heels and a strapless dress and curled my hair, so I was definitely down for a good time, especially after a tough week.
We went out to dinner that lasted for three hours, and then tried to decide what to do with the rest of the night. We ended up choosing a new-ish club/pub/restaurant/whatever in Fells Point, reasoning that it would have some decent Top 40 dancing music and possibly some cute boys to manipulate into embarrassing the bride-to-be.
THAT IS ALSO WHAT GIRLS DO.
And this is how I found out that I am old.
I have not, overall, noticed too much of a difference in my life since I turned 30. Maybe I expected something earth shattering, but the fact is, most days I kind of forget how old I am. It comes up in conversation, or someone cards me, and I realize I'm not 29 anymore. Eh, no biggie, doesn't really bother me to be honest. The twenties weren't all that spectacular. Oh, except that they were a spectacular shit show, but besides that.
But, apparently, I'm ready to hang up my party shoes and call it a day. And I am NOT alone in this.
We got to the club/pub/restaurant/whatever, and immediately realized that the majority of our crowd was about ten years senior to most of the people in the club. How did we realize this? Because the boys couldn't grow beards, and the girls all looked like this.
I paid thirty bucks for three drinks (WHAT THE HELL IS THIS BULLSHIT I KNOW THESE TWEEN BITCHES CAN'T AFFORD THAT), distributed them among friends, and we headed out to the dance floor.
Oh. Emm. Geeee.
We've all been the victim of a spastic-dance moment or two, as vodka tends to make you believe you are, in fact, Beyonce. When, really, you're...well...NOT.
But this was a frigging free-for-all. I mean, arms a'flailin', legs akimbo, skinny bitches tossing themselves all up over everywhere.
And my friends and I stood there like this.
My feet hurt. I was tired. The music was loud. There were people EVERYWHERE, and the line for the bathroom was atrocious. I desperately wanted to be at home, in my bed, reading bad Chick lit. I looked at my phone and realized, with horror, that it was ELEVEN THIRTY PM.
WHAT THE HELL NONSENSE IS THAT.
Now, this might not have been so bad had it not come on the heels of LAST weekend when I attended the Charm City Music Festival. It was an absolutely gorgeous, sunny fall day, we rocked out to Eve 6 and Flogging Molly and had some pretty intense dancing in the dub step tent (I loooooooove me some dub step, furreal) but by the time Weezer came on it was 10pm, and I was cold and tired and feeling sick from all of the people smoking various things around me. By the time the twenty-millionth person crashed into me whilst head-banging (IT'S WEEZER, PEOPLE, NOT BLACK SABBATH) and spilled my precious $8 beer, I was done. I threw my hands up in the air and told my friends I was going to the nearest bar that had warmth and a place to sit, and that they were welcome to stay for the rest of Weezer's set. Not surprisingly, every last one of them followed me out of the park claiming they didn't want me to walk by myself. Liars, you all were sick of the crowd, too!
So, two weekends in a row of me getting tired before midnight and wanting to go home and be comfy and warm and quiet.
This might be a new trend.
I wasn't alone at the club on Saturday night either, everyone was more than happy to roll out shortly after one member of our party (who shall remain unnamed) pushed a bitch for Party Rockin' a little too close (and, to give the pushee credit, she stumbled and then danced her way back upright, scarcely missing a beat) and we all decided that perhaps this wasn't "our scene."
We are much happier these days with bottles of wine than shots and deafening party rocking, I must say.
But note that I said "bottles." We can still hold our own, no lie.
Where I was alone, however, is that once we left the club/pub/restaurant/whatever, I was in Home Mode. Like "stick a fork in me, I'm done" Home Mode. I wanted to be at home, in bed, asleep.
Everyone else went out to another bar.
I did not.
I went home and watched Saturday Night Live reruns on Netflix with the cats.
#dirtythirty begins it's silent assault.
But the bride-to-be had an awesome time, and that's all that counts.
THAT'S WHAT GIRLS DO.
It had been awhile since I'd slapped on a pair of four-inch heels and a strapless dress and curled my hair, so I was definitely down for a good time, especially after a tough week.
We went out to dinner that lasted for three hours, and then tried to decide what to do with the rest of the night. We ended up choosing a new-ish club/pub/restaurant/whatever in Fells Point, reasoning that it would have some decent Top 40 dancing music and possibly some cute boys to manipulate into embarrassing the bride-to-be.
THAT IS ALSO WHAT GIRLS DO.
And this is how I found out that I am old.
I have not, overall, noticed too much of a difference in my life since I turned 30. Maybe I expected something earth shattering, but the fact is, most days I kind of forget how old I am. It comes up in conversation, or someone cards me, and I realize I'm not 29 anymore. Eh, no biggie, doesn't really bother me to be honest. The twenties weren't all that spectacular. Oh, except that they were a spectacular shit show, but besides that.
But, apparently, I'm ready to hang up my party shoes and call it a day. And I am NOT alone in this.
We got to the club/pub/restaurant/whatever, and immediately realized that the majority of our crowd was about ten years senior to most of the people in the club. How did we realize this? Because the boys couldn't grow beards, and the girls all looked like this.
I paid thirty bucks for three drinks (WHAT THE HELL IS THIS BULLSHIT I KNOW THESE TWEEN BITCHES CAN'T AFFORD THAT), distributed them among friends, and we headed out to the dance floor.
Oh. Emm. Geeee.
We've all been the victim of a spastic-dance moment or two, as vodka tends to make you believe you are, in fact, Beyonce. When, really, you're...well...NOT.
But this was a frigging free-for-all. I mean, arms a'flailin', legs akimbo, skinny bitches tossing themselves all up over everywhere.
And my friends and I stood there like this.
My feet hurt. I was tired. The music was loud. There were people EVERYWHERE, and the line for the bathroom was atrocious. I desperately wanted to be at home, in my bed, reading bad Chick lit. I looked at my phone and realized, with horror, that it was ELEVEN THIRTY PM.
WHAT THE HELL NONSENSE IS THAT.
Now, this might not have been so bad had it not come on the heels of LAST weekend when I attended the Charm City Music Festival. It was an absolutely gorgeous, sunny fall day, we rocked out to Eve 6 and Flogging Molly and had some pretty intense dancing in the dub step tent (I loooooooove me some dub step, furreal) but by the time Weezer came on it was 10pm, and I was cold and tired and feeling sick from all of the people smoking various things around me. By the time the twenty-millionth person crashed into me whilst head-banging (IT'S WEEZER, PEOPLE, NOT BLACK SABBATH) and spilled my precious $8 beer, I was done. I threw my hands up in the air and told my friends I was going to the nearest bar that had warmth and a place to sit, and that they were welcome to stay for the rest of Weezer's set. Not surprisingly, every last one of them followed me out of the park claiming they didn't want me to walk by myself. Liars, you all were sick of the crowd, too!
So, two weekends in a row of me getting tired before midnight and wanting to go home and be comfy and warm and quiet.
This might be a new trend.
I wasn't alone at the club on Saturday night either, everyone was more than happy to roll out shortly after one member of our party (who shall remain unnamed) pushed a bitch for Party Rockin' a little too close (and, to give the pushee credit, she stumbled and then danced her way back upright, scarcely missing a beat) and we all decided that perhaps this wasn't "our scene."
We are much happier these days with bottles of wine than shots and deafening party rocking, I must say.
But note that I said "bottles." We can still hold our own, no lie.
Where I was alone, however, is that once we left the club/pub/restaurant/whatever, I was in Home Mode. Like "stick a fork in me, I'm done" Home Mode. I wanted to be at home, in bed, asleep.
Everyone else went out to another bar.
I did not.
I went home and watched Saturday Night Live reruns on Netflix with the cats.
#dirtythirty begins it's silent assault.
But the bride-to-be had an awesome time, and that's all that counts.
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