*This post should've been written by someone else. But she's fighting her blogging destiny, so I'm writing it.*
Friday night I met the homies at a lounge in the West Loop to continue the celebration of our latest Ph.D. They had a table, and there was no cover... so far, so good.
I walk in and immediately recognize this dude I know standing inside the door. I nod and speak. No response.
Problem #1: I do not know this person. I've just seen him in so many clubs in the last 2 years that I recognized his face and thought I knew him. Conclusion: One or both of us is spending too much time in the club. I digress...
I make it over to the table, dance for a lil bit, and have a seat. "Blow the Whistle" comes on. Homie 1 and Homie 2 lose their minds and get to dancing on a leather couch in stilettos. A bad idea if you ask me, but they aren't my couches. And everyone else is doing it, so...
At this point a young woman standing behind our couch sees how much fun we're having and tells her friend "I wanna go dance with them." Her friend tries to discourage her, but she's determined. And since I dig the communal party experience (some of my best moments in the club have come dancing with strangers... I see you, Chic From Le Passage), I smile at her, effectively giving her the Okay. And she makes her way over. At this point we encounter...
Problem #2: This chic is wasted. Grown and wasted. After I put my hand out to keep her from falling on her *ss, she spends 20 minutes thanking me, telling me how well I was raised, how much she appreciates black women being able to support each other, how she wants us to be friends in real life, how she's gonna "be somebody" in Chicago politics, and how if I ever need anything I can call her. Yes, everyone in the club is drinking, but I figure the acceptability of being that drunk in public falls off exponentially by the year after age 26. But I digress...
Sometime after chic makes her exit, Homie 1 leans over and speaks my mind. "The folks in this club are like 27." I had estimated 25-32. It was not a young crowd. It was the kinda crowd where you have to wonder how many folks in the room wouldn't rather be booed up in sweats and a t-shirt, sitting on the couch watching SVU. Instead of being in the club looking for someone to get booed up with. It was the kinda crowd where you couldn't help but think, "Is this really what we do? Are we really still doing this?"
By the end of night, I estimated that I have maybe 2 or 3 more nights in the club left in me. And those will likely be spread out over the next couple years. Nothing to be sad about, I did my club days proud. And I have the Facebook photo albums to prove it =). Just can't do it like I used to. Can't say that I want to.
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This is perhaps the best description of the feeling a person gets when his/her club days are grinding to a screeching halt. You did your part fallen soldier. It's always a little sad when someone is leaving the game bc you kinda are living vicariously through them so you say (to yourself and not them) I hope she outlasts them all, breaks the mold, and stays in the club well into her 30s...but of course that can’t be so. Inevitably that person - in this case you - will move on to more sedentary events like chill sets, restaurant happy hours =>, and wine tastings like the rest of us. There is a tremendous upside to that though, you just wait and see...
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