Dance like you’re 30
So last weekend I finally managed to hoard together a handful of my friends for a belated 30th birthday dance and drink-fest. Luckily Vancouver still has at least one awesome dance bar that caters to Generation Catalano; there is a live band that always plays fun 90’s and early 2000’s music (so stuff I actually know), the average age is above 19, and most people are wearing things that I recognize as clothes.
Still though, it is a little disconcerting to be partying with, and occasionally get hit on, by people who are potentially more than a DECADE younger.* These kids grew up with Wikipedia instead of Encarta and a cellphone instead of a curfew. They have probably never even heard the comforting gggsssssssshhh-wheeeee-ting-ting-ting sound of a modem connecting to the internet. They have barely lived.
So there we were, a group of admittedly hot but highly married women dancing and singing away at the front of the dance floor. Various guys – many Movember-mustachioed and reminiscent of 70’s porn stars – made stops at our circle, testing their luck; we entertained them briefly while waiting for the next great dance song, at which point we had to turn back to more important things like swinging each other round and round to Home for a Rest.
One seriously overconfident kid, apparently unaware that he had yet to grow out of that awkward gangly teenager look, was extra entertaining. He approached a couple of my friends who quickly filled him in that we were there to celebrate my birthday. With his opening line ready, he made a show of looking me over and said – “hmm…. so you are turning….. twenty?”
For a brief moment I considered playing along. It would have been easy. Just like I could have earlier when the guys behind us in line had asked what birthday I was celebrating. Because I’ll admit, when that “thirtieth” came out of my mouth it sounded old. It sounded less desirable. And it didn’t quite sound right in a dance club, not even this one.
But in that moment, while he was apparently seeing me as just another young girl he might be able to impress, all I could think was: oh honey, I could crush you.
I realized that not playing along was going to be much more entertaining. So I smiled my sweetest smile and said “yeah I’m twenty…[this is where he is feeling completely superior with his pick-up technique]… plus a decade” while displaying my spread out fingers in front of him for emphasis in case he couldn’t hear me over the booming music. His pale face plainly showed his shock and awe that someone that old could still dance without the aid of a walker!
I do have to give him credit for persevering (perhaps he thought he was in the presence of honest-to-goodness cougars) and even dancing along enthusiastically to songs he clearly did not know, the best of which was when we all belted out “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother, I’m a sinner, I’m a saint, I do not feel ashamed…” along with
Alanis Morrisette Meredith Brooks. He kind of reminded me of a puppy. Eventually he grew tired and left to chase some different tail.
We danced hard, drank hard and then left the bar at a respectable 11:30 pm because we were tired and had had enough of being crushed by a mob of sweaty, drunk people. We went home to our husbands, our tidy apartments and our cozy beds. It was a good night out.
*Drinking age in Canada is 19.