I’ve always loved a good party. My college years are a blur of keggers and rainbow-colored shots and late-night Taco Bell runs and going to class (hungover) in my pajamas.
But now that those years have passed, and I’m this responsible adult—or at least masquerading as one—I can’t even remember the last time I really let loose and tied one on. At the ripe old age of 35, I don’t have much of a choice. If I want a social life that extends beyond children’s birthdays and please-buy-this-overly-expensive-product-and-then-agree-against-your-better-judgment-to-book-your-own-party parties, I pretty much have two options: One, go to a dance club actually feeling cute, only to walk through the door and realize that everybody there is 21 and all their body parts are still firm, and feel like an old piece of crap all night while watching them stumble and grind on each other and slur to their friends in a whisper-yell, “Ohmygawd, I’m sooooooo drunk right now.” Or two, go to a sedate bar where everybody is quietly sipping martinis in dim yet sophisticated lighting, looking like off-duty lawyers, while some sort of Muzak plays at a level that does not impede your ability to have a conversation.
I’m not satisfied with either of those selections. Although I adore dancing, I’m of an age that automatically makes me that person at dance clubs: the old, overreaching wannabe who is clearly trying to relive her glory days. And I appreciate a good martini and a relaxed ambience as much as the next grownup, but sometimes an oldster just wants to shake her (aging) ass to a good beat.
It’s hard out there for us thirtysomethings. We don’t exactly fit in when you plop us into the middle of a club full of people who were born when we were in, like, high school—yet we’re still young enough to occasionally want more than soft jazz music and a grossly overpriced cocktail. In many ways we’re surer of ourselves than ever, but when it comes to the social scene, we’re at a frustratingly awkward age.
Isn’t it ironic? Don’tcha think?
The solution is clear: Someone needs to open a club exclusively for people in their thirties. With a dance floor—devoid of enviably perky early-twentysomethings—that plays at least the occasional ’90s hit because seriously, who in this age group could resist getting down to, say, a little bit of Sir Mix-a-Lot? We like big butts and we cannot lie! The place would open at seven in the evening so we have time to eat dinner first because by the time you’re in your thirties, you have learned that drinking on an empty stomach is a bad idea no matter how quickly it gets you hammered.
It would close by 1 a.m. because, hello, that’s way past our bedtime; we still have obligations in the morning outside of sleeping off our liquor consumption. There would be awesome two-for-one drink specials since we have legit bills to pay these days, like the mortgage … or at least that arm and leg you forked over to the sitter for a night out. There would be a section to chill away from the dance floor when it gets too loud (while “too loud” wasn’t a thing in our twenties, it’s a recipe for a headache these days). There would be bathroom attendants equipped with ibuprofen, hand sanitizer and Tums. Maybe an onsite massage therapist for hire in case we pull a muscle trying to twerk. And it would have a complimentary shuttle service because by now we’re mature enough to know that whoever is the least drunk is not a viable option when it comes to transportation.
It would be a fabulous, magical place, where we would be among our peers and could celebrate life with all the vibrancy of our younger, wilder days—while simultaneously retaining the good sense that our thirties have bestowed upon us. No longer would we risk looking or feeling terminally uncool for knowing our limits and turning down that last shot, or heading home before midnight.
Besides, I need a place where I can rap “Shoop” in its entirety without being met with eye rolls from people who were still embryos when it came out.
Somebody make this happen. The first round is on me.