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A friend of mine asked me if I was coming to this party. It’s some sort of punk party with some kinky reggae music thing happening. I have no idea what that means by the way. However, a friend is DJing and he assures me that I will have a good time. I’m like, yeah okay, I’ll go…

But I can’t lie; I am very hesitant about going. In my head, I riddled with questions such as what the dress will be like. Do I have to buy a new outfit? I hope not because my mortgage is due and I already reached my personal allocated “free spending” dollars when I purchased a food vacuum sealer last week. Yeah, that was kind of my splurge for the month. Will there be enough seats in this establishment? If so, I’ll wear heels. What about my errands and chores around the house that I usually reserve for Saturdays? I still have to go grocery shopping, do Zumba, wash some clothes and finally get around to dusting and vacuuming (not food but actual carpet).  Will I be done early enough to have a power nap before going out or will I have to wing it? How much is parking? Parking is not cheap nowadays. I once spent $20 whole bucks for two hours of parking at dinner down South Street. What about Sunday? I had plans to go to the park in the morning. Plus, I still have to prepare for work on Monday. Will I have the energy to do that after a night of bumping and grinding?

Well, according to author of this hilariously-written article, “For 80s Babies: The 7 C’s of People Too Old For The Club Scene,” complaining, calculating and contemplating are all signs that I just might be too old for the club circuit. The author might have a point; it’s only Tuesday and I’m stressing and pre-planning all the particulars of a party, which doesn’t even kick off until Saturday night.

The last time I was in a club, it was on a Saturday night, about a year and a half ago. The music was bumping, the drinks were flowing and the bodies were swaying.  I’m with my bestie, a girl I had known since we began high school in 1992– 1992 I said! Anyway, we are on the dance floor, “white girl wasted” off of Long Island Ice Teas, two stepping and such with two dudes, when the DJ cuts gets on the mic and says, “aiiiiight, we ’bout to get it in tonight.” With a few scratches of his turntable, “Candy Rain” by Soul for Real began to boom out of the speakers. Everyone got hype. The whole club collectively threw our arms up in the air while simultaneously singing, “Candy-coated raaaaaiiin drops…”  The DJ gets on the mic again, “Yeah we taking it back to the old school on this jawn.” Err…record scratch. Old school? What the heck is he talking about?

Now I know the song is old, but in my mind, old school is Maze featuring Frankie Beverly, James Brown and Michael Jackson when he had all his original features. I mean, “Candy Rain” just came out…Oh. My. God. Wait, that song is 17 years old???

Let’s put that in perspective, in 1995, I was a wide-eyed high school graduate, preparing for my first year at Virginia Union University; Bill Clinton was in the middle of his first term as president; O.J. Simpson was tried and eventually acquitted of murder charges of his ex-wife and her friend; Boyz II Men had swept both the Soul Train and the American Music Awards; Timothy McVeigh would carry out the Oklahoma City attacks; NBC aired the final broadcast of “Empty Nest”; We thought that brothers were going to work it out at the Million Man March, the average cost of gas was only $1.15; and finally, the high school senior kid is a year younger than the song “Candy Rain.”

Not to mention all of the history that has occurred within those 17 years since the song came out. For a brief moment I felt kind of weird. Like I had infiltrated a time and space, which I no longer belong too. Even the two dudes we were dancing with had faces that were so pubescent that I thought for sure that Chris Hansen was going to walk out from the shadows of the club and ask me to have a seat. I was almost ready to go, but the DJ, who once again made a proclamation about his reverence to the old school, dropped the Brownstone classic, “If You Love Me?” And just like that, we were back to bumping and grinding with the young boys again. Did I mention we were wasted?

Like most old heads, my girlfriend and I left the club early. As we walked down South Street, I confided in her my awkwardness about hanging out in the clubs. “Girl, I noticed that as soon as I got out the car. Look around, we are probably the oldest chicks out here tonight,” she said matter of factly.  “But gurl I ain’t worried about how old we are. As far as I’m concerned, we still look young and good. So whateva…on another note, my feet hurt. Why I wear these shoes?” she concluded while leaning on my shoulder. She did have a point, including about those shoes.

More or less, I have outgrown the club scene, which is all the indication I need to know that I am probably too old for the club. At the cusp of turning 35 years old, I have come to appreciate more low-key activities including going to the theater to watch a good play, attending book and panel discussions, going to a friend’s house for intimate dinners or just sitting at home, watching films on Netflix. However, I would be lying if I didn’t say that once and a while, I crave the dank, obnoxiously loud, smoke-filled atmosphere of a night club. Basically, I still want to go out, cut loose and dance the night away to my heart’s content–or until my feet hurt, whatever comes first.  And why I shouldn’t I?

Oh that’s right, because nobody want to become the old-head at the club. So where does an old-head like I go to really let loose? I feel too old for the clubs and too young to do The Wobble at the B.Y.O.B Cabarets. Thoughts?

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