A Requiem for Going Out Out


‘Going out out’ is a phrase that sends shivers down the spines of most people in their mid-thirties, yet this weekend I tried to prove myself wrong in the name of reliving my youth. A couple of weekends ago, I had attempted to go out out. By that, I mean that I wore a pair of heels and some red lipstick, to go out. However, that night we ended up out-outish, in a pub that blared out cheese music whilst my friend and I planned that fated walk in Wales (see previous post – WARNING: SCENES OF MILD PERIL). Coincidentally, that same evening, another friend invited me to go proper out out. I foolishly said yes because I was determined to prove that I, in my mid-thirties, could still have a bloody good time out out.

Fast-forward to last night (Saturday). Now, let me put my weekend into a bit of context here; Friday evening (after a full day at work) I hosted a fondue night which ended up with me mopping the floor at midnight because there was an explosion of cheese and flour, and Saturday morning/afternoon was spent fake-god parenting at a naming ceremony. I had had a fairly full-on 18 hours. However, I soldiered on regardless prepping for my night out out with a classic disco nap. It was not a glorious disco nap, not like the ones I used to have during a matinee movie on the telly. I pseudo snoozed whilst Sir Pepperoni the cat kneaded me to death.

When it came to getting ready, several things came into my head (anyone who has read my Twitter feed may be familiar with some of these thoughts):

  1. Getting ready to music on the radio was rather disappointing, no classic getting-ready choons (this included 80s & 90s stations). I settled on Smooth FM which, in hindsight, was a bit too low-tempo for getting ready but at least I knew the songs they were playing.
  2. Upon packing my tiny clutch bag, it felt like my personal possessions had gotten too big and wouldn’t fit/my inhaler took up all the space. I settled on shoving overflow items into my jacket pocket.
  3. Tights. I spend 99% of the year in opaque black tights (footless ones in the summer). Expecting to go for a boogie, I tested their danceability by jumping up and down; I was not going to have Nora Batty knees tonight, no siree.
  4. Footwear. I put on my lovely tasseled wedges. Then remembered sticky, beer/vodka/Redbull-soaked dance floors. I replaced these with a pair of black flats. However, I secretly worried that the black flats would get ruined; I no longer have a disposable shoe wardrobe.
  5. I had to make a mental note to myself to not eat too much at dinner, because boogies.
  6. I have a LOT of red lipsticks. Maybe I should wear them more?
  7. Out out clothing: I was sure that my dress looked a bit like a black bin liner made from crepe paper but one of the joys of being in my mid-thirties is that I no longer give a shit.

Upon arrival at the restaurant I was actually a bit excited. I wanted to tell the restaurant that I was OUT OUT. Catch up with BFF was lovely; she was all glammed up with a face made up by the gods at Givenchy and heels to die for. I resented my choice of black flats. All was well until we ordered some water for the table. The waiter came along in a rush with a stupidly shaped jug (FYI curved jugs are a stupid idea), he placed it on the table but didn’t place it properly and before I knew it, a tsunami of cold tap water gushed towards me. I got soaked good and proper. As did my phone and the rest of my textile-based possessions. I believe my precise words during this incident were: ‘FUCK MY LIFE’. Looking on the up side, my crepe paper dress was super thin and was semi-dryable underneath the hand dryers in the toilet. My jacket and scarf couldn’t be saved though and they remained damp for the rest of the evening. By the time I got back to the table, my pasta was cold (it was also overcooked) and my gin cocktail had gone flat. I won’t be going back there any time soon.

Anyway, moving onwards. We did a mini-bar crawl stopping off at hotspots like Turtle Bay (HAPPY HOUR AT 10PM!), where we made friends with two girls we shared a table with. Over cocktails that tasted like UmBongo, we bonded over Bongo’s Bingo (to be honest the girls were off their faces and I’m still none the wiser as to how it differs from normal bingo, other than it’s aimed at hipsters), bananas (mainly dislike of bananas) and not understanding how people were ordering food at 10pm which is way past anybody’s dinner time. We swiftly moved on to the Victoria and got trapped on a very small make-shift dance floor. It was also dark. Very dark. Like, they couldn’t afford to replace the lightbulbs kinda dark. Not great when you’re still sober (another observation: definitely takes longer to get merry on drinks in your mid-thirties). We managed to squeeze our way out for proper boogs (that’s short for ‘boogies’ guys) at the legendary Island Bar. It took a while for us to recognise any song on the playlist (thank you RiRi, we will ensure to werk werk werk werk werk). As the music got louder and we lost the ability to hear each other, we headed towards another tiny dance floor to get into the swing of being out out. I’m not going to lie though, we were very distracted by the projection screen that was showing Baywatch, reminiscing over CJ Parker/Pamela Lee, Jaaaaaaaason Simmons and Yasmin Bleeth going to sea in a full face of make up. Also the episode ‘Der Cowboy’, probs because it was a German dubbed episode. Having watched a few episodes/danced to a few choons we’d never heard of in our lives, we decided to call it a night at 12.30am. But the drama wasn’t over. SOMEONE HAD STOLEN MY BFF’S DENIM JACKET (of 12 years). *sighs*. Several search and rescue attempts later, the denim jacket remained unfound. Since when did going out out become such a perilous experience? 30 minutes after leaving, I was at home in front of the telly watching Law and Order: Special Victims Unit with a cup of tea.

Let’s be clear here, I am not opposed to a cheeky night out out. I am not a destroyer of spontaneous fun with friends over a few boogs and bevvies. However, occasionally the pressure to have a good time when you’re out out (especially when you only do it twice a year) becomes a bit overbearing and I sometimes get a bit of social anxiety because of it: ‘WHAT IF I DON’T HAVE A GOOD TIME?’ ‘WHAT IF MY FEET START TO BLEED BECAUSE I’VE BOOGIED TOO HARD?’ ‘WHAT IF I GET A MIGRAINE FROM HAVING TOO MUCH FUN?’ ‘HAVE I PUT ENOUGH HAIRSPRAY IN MY HAIR?’ are just a few thoughts that go through my head. Having said that, in my opinion letting your hair down is absolutely necessary and I see it as an important form of self care. I quite like the idea of a cheeky night out out every now and then but I think that as you get older, you realise that there are other more conducive things you could be doing with your time and money. Especially when you have to work real hard to earn that money and time off only comes once every five days. Fun comes in other forms; a happy hour drink with friends after work, crochet, dinner parties etc. For the foreseeable future I think I will channel my energies into standard, plebeian ‘out’ which, in my humble opinion, is far more rewarding than a night out out which, more often than not, ends with painful feet and a sore head. Here’s to going just out *clinks*.

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