Clubbing at….40?!

Picture this: I’m at the club for my friend’s 23rd birthday, and it’s about 11pm. There are a lot of things wrong with this statement. What am I, at 41, doing in a nightclub? At 11pm? Hanging out with 23 year olds?

Whatever. Stay with me here (laughing face emoji).  

I look amazing.  Since I rarely go out, I really brought it for this party.  Satin, leopard print, mini shirt dress; thigh high, black leather, platform, stiletto heel boots; hair down; all of my gold jewelry.  I killed it.

So, I’m with my 20-something crew, feeling myself, having a drink, fitting in.  And then I start to notice that so many people are wearing white Nike Air Force One’s.  Actually, taking a closer look, I see even the people not wearing white air force ones are still wearing white, low top runners: converse, keds, pumas, etc. 

Wait a minute….EVERYONE is wearing runners.  And everyone is wearing jeans and a t-shirt or tank. Everyone except me.

Now, I clearly remember going to the Roxy when I was 23 and judging the “cougars.” We knew them as the 40 something and older  women in denim miniskirts, ed hardy baby t’s, and bad, chunky highlights. They were always 10 years behind in the trends, and looked like they were having a great time!  How dare they?! Didn’t they know how ridiculous they looked?

It became clear in a hot second.  “I” am the new cougar. With my platform heels, I have just advertised to a whole club that one of these things is not like the others. I am literally the only person in the club wearing heels. And a dress.  But mostly it was the heels that got me.  

Far from embarrassed, I actually felt proud!  I stood out as mature and older. It was a welcome feeling that I was beyond the trend.  And *that* feeling really surprised me. I suddenly understood the cougars of yesteryear, having fun and not worrying about what “the kids” thought of them.
My sweet, 23-year-old friend (birthday boy from above) told me lovingly that I was “giving Ariana Grande. Beyonce!”  I’ll take it. 

This is a short story with no real point. This is where it ends. 

It has been my observation that during our lives we fear getting older.  We fear being out of touch and looking like “those” folkx in the club. And then one day we realize it’s already happened, and we no longer care. Go live, gurl.