It's getting harder and harder for me to cling to my claims that I'm still 28 years old.
I went on a girls' night out Saturday night.
The first indicator that I was definitely not 28 anymore is that as I type this, I realise it was actually 27 that I still claimed to be on an annual basis, not 28.
The other first indicator was that I was slightly horrified that they were booking dinner for 7:30pm.
I was all like:
- But I'll be starving by then! Who eats that late?
- I'll likely be completely shit-faced drunk because I can't handle more than 1-2 wines without food (shut up whoever is game to comment about moderation and water).
- By the time we sit down, order a drink first, chat, check the menu...OMG, IT WILL BE AT LEAST 8:30 BEFORE I GET DINNER! I'M NORMALLY IN BED WATCHING THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF ALL THE WORLD AT THAT HOUR!
- What bloody time will we finish and get home to the comfort of bed and elastic waistbands (in place of the sadistic lycra I'll have to wear out in public)???!??!
Clearly not the thoughts of a 27/28 year old.
More someone who belongs at the 5pm sitting, flashing their Senior's or Pensioner card for a discount on the all you can eat buffet, right?
But I decided to take one for the team and man up and all that shit and so I Martha Stewart-ised my face into something that I hoped resembled a 27/28 year old, put on the boa constrictor style lycra, and off I went.
It didn't help my old woman woes when my friend was asked for ID at the door. She is a mere 3 years younger than me. THREE YEARS, PEOPLE.
They didn't even look at me. In fact, had they looked, they would've been more likely to ask if I wanted the Senior's discount on parking. Bastards.
As soon as we sat down my brain very quickly worked out that my youthful looking friend sitting next to me (who has had 3 bloody kids on top of looking like a perky 17 year old), while only 3 years younger, apparently looked half my actual age of 34 (see, I'm getting so old I'm forgetting to maintain that ridiculous facade that I'm totes 27/28).
It gets better....
People have babies at 17 years of age, so therefore it was conceivable to the bastards on security that I could be the mother of my friend who looks 17 but is really only 3 years younger than me.
Bastards. Total and utter bastards.
Feeling completely old and shabby, I sucked it up and proceeded with the night's festivities.
Again, my inner senior citizen kept trying to ruin it for me:
- Where are their clothes? In reference to all the girls who would be showing their Britney bits if they were to trip or stumble or even cough.
- Aren't they cold? Where are their cardigans? And their pants, they can't possibly be wearing a complete outfit, don't tell me that is a dress. It is not. It is a top.
- How can anyone hear with all this noise?
- Does the band really need to be screaming-loud? Can't they be gentle-roar-loud?
- My feet are killing me in these boots, and I have no idea why because I bought them from a pharmacy that specialises in old lady orthotics so they should be comfortable.
- My cocktail slushie is making my hands cold. Do I smell coffee? Oh I'd love a hot coffee.
- What time is it? Oh. My. God. It's past midnight. At any minute my lycra will burst at the seams, my industrial make up with peel away, and I'm going to turn into a fat old pensioner.
- I am slightly jealous of the pensioners who are sitting comfortably at 1c poker machines and not crammed into this bar area with the screaming-loud band.
I am such a party animal.
This is why I drink at home - elastic waistbands, early start totally permissible, shoes / fluffy socks optional.