I went to a club again. Ugh. I was that 30-year-old I used to make fun of when I was 20. I stuck out, in that black-lit lounge, due to the existence of my self esteem and my non-revealing outfit. I don’t even know how I got in. This was some ‘really cool’ place where you have to know someone who knows the president to get in. The kind of place that delights in turning innocent men away at the door. The kind of place that plays ‘Baby Got Back’ and lines the walls with grody rich men and their bottles. The kind of place that’s ‘so cool’ some people’s egos actually burst when they walk through the door. When they let me right in, I even accidentally said ‘That’s how it’s done, bitch.’ Gross. I went for a birthday party, and it confirmed for me the fact that I will never ever ever step foot in one of these places again. Because I’m just too old. And uncool. And I’d rather spend my nights talking with people who know what it’s like to pay their own rent or have heard of things like politics, Panama, or pants.
I wasn’t always so uncool and interested in men who could talk about more than the alphabet. Let’s take a look at how hip I actually was back when I used to laugh at thirty-year-olds:
One day back at the turn of the century, when I was living off my stash of unused Y2K supplies, I actually requested that someone document this getup. I wanted to remember just how alluring I looked in these stylish high-waisted pleather slacks that tapered lovingly towards the ankle. And of course the classy bikini-ish top with extra expensive wrap strings. Hot hot hot. Lastly, I couldn’t dare forget the mushroom haircut, which I have to brag is not that far from that of Anna Wintour (if the lady is so fashionable, why does she have my Y2K hairdo?).
I’ll admit it. I met truckloads of men wearing this outfit. Men love pleather, let me tell you. The dapper clubgoing man can’t resist a mushroom ‘do atop a boobless bikini top. Worked like a charm, as I met quality man after quality man who would buy me a Red Bull and offer me capfuls of GHB by the bathroom. Ah, those were the days. The days of cutting lines. The days of leaving the house at midnight. The days of going to bed at noon.
They were fun. They were exciting. They are over.
Thank the heavens, they are over.
I realize they are not over for some. I know there are twenty-year-olds out there who feel the same desire I used to feel: to get into hot spots with fake IDs and get phone numbers and try to go on dates with anyone in some sort of circle with any celebrity, even if it means the cousin of the neighbor of that guy, Buddy, from Charles in Charge. Celebrity Adjacent works. I get it. I had different goals then, as the twenty-year-olds of today do.
But there is an epidemic among these clubgoing girls, and I must reach out to them. I must get in touch with their poor souls and tell them that what they’re doing is unnecessary. This epidemic is sweeping Hollywood, and I’m shocked at how little press it’s getting. It’s the plague of the streetwalkers. It’s Anna Wintour’s fault, I assume. Somebody started a trend, and I’m guessing it’s her. Judging by my photo, I don’t exactly follow fashion. But someone… some powerful jerkwad told these young girls they should try their best to look like successful street walkers and then manufactured “dresses” out of napkins.
It’s gross. I have never seen so many almost-labia in my life. These vaginas are barely dressed and able to peek out without notice. GIRLS! I can see your perineum when you dance. Stop it. Just stop it.
Clubgoers, beware! Vaginal fluids are splashing like lazy martinis all over the dance floor and we ALL MUST BE AWARE. These dresses of today are too small to be called dresses. These dresses of today are too small to be called shirts. This is a tragedy! Anna Wintour, please help.
I saw this one in leopard print at the club. I’m guessing she got free drinks. And a venereal disease.
I realize that these ho costumes are just an updated version of my pleather, so I would like to tell these girls from experience: don’t do it. These outfits will only get you dates with drug dealers, men who drive Beamers but live with their parents, and guys who will have sex with you for three months and then disappear (totally guessing on that last one.).
But who am I to teach lessons? Everyone has to learn for herself. My mom told me not to wear pleather, and look where it got me: wearing pleather. So I shall stop acting old. I shall stop judging and preaching. I will be silent and hold onto the hope that by the time I have a daughter who is of age to hit the clubs, Polygamist Sect Skirts will be all the rage. Anna, you have about thirty years to make this happen. Do it.
Oh! Gotta go. Matlock is starting.