When I was 20, I tried to dip my toes into the bar scene. Also known as, warm beer spilled all over the dance floor.
I was exposed to a world of Tequila shots, uncoordinated dance moves, and late night trips to Domino’s pizza.
Don’t worry, my bar experience was always G-rated. But looking back, I wonder how I ever had time to make my Friday afternoon classes.
I’m 23 and went to a bar a couple of weeks ago.
Usually, I hold my breath every time the bouncer checks my ID and carry my passport as backup just in case.
This time was different.
I felt like I was immersed with a group of toddlers whose playpens had just been opened.
Only this time, they were using real tongues as opposed to soothers. Gross. Those tonsils weren’t just playing hockey, they were in the freakin’ playoffs.
What would your loyal hockey moms say?
I wanted to ask if those moms were picking them up or if they needed me to give them a ride home later that night. And did they buy those drinks with their weekly allowance or did they just ask their fathers for cash?
During my evening adventure, I ran into children who wore braces and most likely had a prescription to Epiduo.
When I do go to clubs, it’s strictly for dancing. And by dancing I mean, jumping up and down by myself in a corner somewhere.
But lately I’ve been thinking it’s time to turn in my dancing shoes, with a pair of knitting needles instead.
There comes a time in every “young” person’s life where the music’s too loud, a man’s sweaty armpits are too close, and a school line of credit doesn’t cover both a normal day and nighttime wardrobe.
At this age, our bodies don’t function like they used to and we’re far more prone to wrinkles.
Instead of staying up until two or three in the morning, I’m thinking about my pjs at two or three in the afternoon.
When ordering a rum and coke at the bar, I’m actually thinking about sipping a warm cup of Early Grey tea with soft ocean music playing in the background.
Or whenever some man tries to swoop in for a dance, I ask if he wants children and has a good relationship with his mother first.
When hopping around on the dance floor, I’ve also caught myself wondering what happens in chapter 11 of Jodi Picoult’s latest novel.
Or when someone pushes past me in the girl’s washroom, I politely tap them on the shoulder to ask if I can help them find their manners.
When strangers are cozying up on the dance floor, I think of all the germs that are multiplying in such a small confined space.
Ladies it’s called LaSenza Girl for a reason. If I can see the stretch marks on your thighs, we have a problem.
And boys, I don’t want to give you my number. If we add them up, it’s double your age times seven.
I’m starting to realize jumping up and down in front of my bedroom mirror is more beneficial than going to a bar on a Saturday night.
I never liked hockey anyway.