Death of a Party Girl

29 Apr

Yeah… No thanks.

 

I lost a part of myself on Thursday. Not a particularly important part, mind you, but still. On Thursday night I realised that my inner Party Girl had died.

I used to love the JHB clubbing scene. In fact, my friend Lisa and I used to make a habit of tarting ourselves up and driving all the way from Pretoria to be part of it. I think we were sold on the Image – silly as it is, it really felt glamorous to be there. The scene to be seen, as it were.

Both students of dentistry at that time, the chance to wear something scandalous instead of the drab no-frills-no-fun policy of our faculty was an escape. The illusion that we were somehow entering into a world of forbidden opulence was Real.

Dressed up, and on our way Up – that’s how those places made us feel.

Pity the world of Clubbing is made up. The people you are trying to impress are not important, rich or impressive.

They’re either pretending – or worse, pathetic (call me old-fashioned, but by the age of 40 you shouldn’t be wearing tight-fitting leather and leering around for that special one-night someone. If you haven’t figured things out by then, making a public fool of yourself is probably not the best way to try).

In more ways than one, I was a Pretender. As mentioned to my readers previously, I was terribly odd-looking and insecure as a teenager. School was crap. I never once went to a dance, never once had a boyfriend.

Good old Manhattan Club – with its loud music and strange velvet-walled toilet area – gave me a chance to compensate for years of spending Friday nights with Harry Potter and friends.

I somehow felt beautiful and wild. But again, I was pretending. Glam is just not my comfort zone. At the moment, my favourite outfit is a cheapo tracksuit that looks so tacky I wouldn’t dare wearing it in (non-East Rand) public. I spend a lot of time barefoot and in jeans. Point is – GlamSkank is simply not Me. Make-up lasts me way longer than it should, because I often don’t bother. Though I must admit a love for fashion as Art, I don’t doll myself up as a matter of necessity.

And then there’s the Money. I once paid R250 to gain entrance into Sandton’s prestigious Taboo. Quite frankly, I was faking that I could afford that. And for what? Shitty house music and an overload of popped collars and pill poppers. Joy. Had I known what the experience would have been, I’d have saved the money and recreated the scene in my then flat:

  1. Loud neighbours => crappy house beats. Check!
  2. Cheap bottle of acidic wine => drunken stupor. Check!
  3. Episode of Jersey Shore=> witnessing the “oh-so-cool” touch tonsils. Check!

Still, I was happy to Pretend. And I think herein lay the value of my Party Girl past – silly and fake as those places were, and silly and fake as I was in them, they made me feel good in a way that no other place could. And that was Real.

Besides, the club owners have mastered the illusion of making us white folk think we can actually dance.

Since we’re not a particularly rhythmic bunch,  I think it may just be the small dance floors. Think about it –  being that crowded makes bobbing your head intently and somewhat spastically following the instructions in the numerous step-by-step dance tracks look almost sexy. Add that R40 shot of Tequila and you’re downright seductive.

 Another thing I’m convinced the Club Owners managed to create is YDE. Yup – Young Designers Emporium. Ever noticed how 9/10 garments is a skirt/skort so short that it can only – and I mean exclusively – look right in a nightclub? Just saying…

 Oh! And the Jock nose. If girls all have a look a of GHD-meets-YDE, the guys all somehow have the same face. I’m not sure how this works, but somehow Club Guys all physically look a bit too similar. Again, this is probably just me being a combination of bored and drunk, but I never see as much muscle and Roman features as I do in clubs. Maybe they get masks at the door. Who knows.

 Point is, I’m over it. And you know the best part? I’m back to being that girl who often spends Friday night in the company of a good book. But this time round, I’m loving it.

 

Important Note: The drunken blonde pictured above is not me. It’s a Google slut.

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6 Responses to “Death of a Party Girl”

  1. Leero Majority April 29, 2012 at 5:19 pm #

    I am soo over it too my friend I don’t have the energy,I am soo over it I don’t even care!

    • caroerasmus April 29, 2012 at 5:23 pm #

      Never thought we’d get to this point haha

  2. pgdejonge April 30, 2012 at 12:19 pm #

    I think this might be an important phase to go through. Or rather that going THROUGH it might be important. While there are probably legitimate reasons to enjoy clubbing (Maybe if you really enjoyed dancing like that), the realisation of the emptiness of the glamour surrounding most things is an important one to have.

    Would you say that the people who continue to go for the rest of their lives are the ones who never managed to grow up? It is a well-established fact that clubs are mostly full of very young people, after all.

    • caroerasmus May 1, 2012 at 9:24 pm #

      Apologies for the late reply – my mobile app is less than useless.

      I don’t think it’s that they never managed to grow up, but rather that they did and were somehow unhappy about where they ended up.. Those old-people clubbers always have a sense of baggage about them.

      Methinks they’re there to recapture youth rather than still in a delusional state of it.

  3. 20LAWannabe June 12, 2012 at 10:58 am #

    This is awesome. We should discuss maybe guest posting on each other’s blogs. xo

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