I’ve always enjoyed going out. I think simply because I like finding new stories to tell and I am in love with the feeling of crawling into bed: smokey-haired and smeary-faced. I like feeling overjoyed that I made it back to my continental pillows and soap-scented sheets alive.
Last night was one of those nights. I went out with my fresh-faced and over-zealous first year housemates- whose wonder at everything I now deem to be novelties allow me to perceive my dingy university city a little brighter.
I love my first years dearly. I love how they wanted me to go out with them and how eagerly they expressed their delight at whatever outfit I’d thrown on for the occasion. I love how excited they get about karaoke nights and grubby bars. I don’t however, love some of their friends.
Queue the arrival of one particular irked freshman with angrily drawn on eyebrows and heavily contoured cheeks. She took one hooded look at my beloved, dilapidated watering hole, considered the fact that most of the people there were around my age (ages 20-22) and declared “well, maybe I’d come here if I were 30, but I want to go somewhere else.”
Her ageist comment made me giggle, especially when she needed the help of someone as geriatric as me to point her in the direction of “somewhere else”.
“Somewhere else” ended up being just as disappointing to Eyebrows as the previous place, so she graced us with her departure and I was able to fully enjoy my existence once again.
I ended up at my favourite grime-pit of a bar- the kind that condones table dancing and head-banging- and was accosted with yet another round of fresh and eager 18 year olds. One of them asked if I wanted to sokkie with him (in a seedy bar that plays only alternative music…okay, little boy) and then leaned in for the grand finale of whispering in my ear the smooth line of “so, do you want to make out?”. I laughed too hard and sputtered out a “no!” (poor chap, I’m sorry) before rescuing my friend from the clutches of a very hormonal, enamoured youth who was lying about his age spectacularly.
“I’m actually in my first year of my second degree”
“Oh really, what year were you born?”
“Forgive me, my maths- how old are you then?”
Flashing his braces, looking very pleased with himself. I’m sure his second degree doesn’t have anything to do with numbers.
I got home around 1. Flopped down onto my fluffy, wonderful, clean bed and felt immediately homesick for the people who weren’t around for any of this, the people I’d much rather have stayed in my pyjamas with.
I like going out because people are silly and their antics and their eyebrows and their terrible pick up lines are the best material. Going out also helps me remember what I have, and how desperately happy I am to have it.