Clubber Pubber

I get all pragmatic these days, about the idea of clubbing and all those clubbers. There was this day during a clubbing episode, when it suddenly struck me that although it keeps happening all around me, I never get hit on at clubs . Not that I want to be hit on, really. Just that it seemed such an odd curiosity. And the question dubiously loomed in front of me- what is the true nature of the club?

So as the night progressed and when even 5 of the sugary pink house-pour drinks (that looked so deceptively potent in tiny shot glasses) failed to get me drunk, rather induced me into a mellow and thoughtful high, I was able to see a great deal of things, clearly, if you will. I made the following observations:

• Everybody in a club is gorgeous (maybe that was the pink drink thinking)
• Everybody in the club is dressed to highlight his/her best assets.
• A LOT people in the club are there hoping to fulfill some lusty fantasy- either in real time, or in their own minds, both with ample help from lots (and LOTS) of alcohol.
• Everyone in the club is engaged in some strange, disorganized mating ritual, a mass gathering of sexually mature (as declared by a plastic card) men and women, many of whom hope to leave with a potential mate before sunrise.
• In short most people at a club are somewhat pathetic and horny.

• The most common archetypes of the female clubber are:
1. The ones with the "girl meets world" expression on their faces.
2. Or the ones doing the "let me shake my bum a bit harder so it jerks to the side like my lumbar spine has been electrocuted- then that cute guy will wanna feel me up"
3. The ones like me: I wish I was drunk enough to be girl number 2 because ignorant bliss is really preferable to wise caution. But unfortunately, when you're girl number 1, you're girl number 1. Hmmm..
4. Of course there are plenty of other, more respectable types, who're just there to cool off after a hard week.

Just a thought.
Anyway, frame shifts to this past weekend and the raucous party that it brought along. Actually skip that. Frame shifts (rather hastily) to Monday morning. Monday morning is worse than Sunday morning because on Sunday, everybody is still recovering from their hangovers and its well into Sunday night before your "friends" emerge from their cocoons and graciously inform you that you were a royal embarrassment to the human race the previous evening.So...This was a blue and gloomy Monday and I was feeling lousy about crassly exposing my inner fool at the party. Alcohol did nothing for me but bring back the most ridiculous, attention seeking, school-girl phase of my young life, that should have been wiped away into oblivion a long time ago. I was slightly upset about this because I wanted people to see me as I saw myself in the mirror (totally FABulous). That morning, I was afraid I had blown my image and reputation completely and I wanted some huge all-concealing lie that would distract everyone, most particularly myself, from the truth of all the stupidity I had subjected myself to. I considered joining a weight loss program or getting a fabulous new hairdo or buying yet another skanky boob-shirt- I’ve noticed how these things often serve to help people get over your shortcomings forgive you for being a flawed human being in general.
But luckily for me, I had a great deal of work to do and I forgot all about feeling crappy as soon as I wrote all of this down. Down with partying. Cheers to ruthless project work.

I'll be back in the groove by Saturday. Woohoo.