Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Happy Birthday

I had one of those significant birthdays this month. My long time friend got an idea that I would love to spend it on the town drinking sweetened apple martinis and dancing in the strobe lights—colorful strobes, of course.

She’s known me for how long? I reminded her of this: wine, cheese, grapes, and then popcorn, fuzzy slippers, and a couple of rented movies. It’s all about HD nowadays; movies look great at home now. No way, she said. You are going to have fun. She sat in my dining room chair facing me, checking the clock—finally, it’s 8:30, let’s go.

I knew 8:30 was a little early to start this whole clubbing activity; but, the fewer the crowds, the better, kind of like arriving at the gate into Disneyland before it opens. I don’t know much about this whole clubbing thing nowadays. The last time I did the whole clubbing thing was, well, Prom, if that counts. And when I say Prom, I mean the time when boyfriends wore baby blue tuxes with white ruffled shirts.

Needless to say, I was going to disappoint my best friend forever as thoroughly as losing my son’s passport right before his trip to Mexico (luckily, two minutes before the last car transporting the kids down there took off, I found it in the trash where I accidentally tossed it with the banana peeling). This time, I figured I wouldn’t be able to redeem myself.

When we arrived to the row of bars—I mean clubs—they were empty. Too early. So we walked. She had on her sparkly, strappy high heels, but walked in them like they were Air Jordans. I wore my flat-thong sandals but fantasized about my fuzzy slippers.

We passed by a young girl wearing short-short cut offs with a white t-back tank top, and sports socks white, with a red stripe, pulled up to just below her knees. Her eyes were drooping, and she couldn’t stand up without help. We approached a couple who had spiked hair, spiked bracelets, chains, strategic holes ripped in their black clothing. The girlfriend said, “You can make it to the trash can this time.” And the boyfriend obliged. He threw up neatly.

I looked at my friend, “Isn’t this fun?” She said yes it was. Okay. I heard some pounding music, saw some strobes and pulled her into the bar. On the dance floor were three college boys doing some kind of shivering movements. On the edge of the floor were some gangsters and their girlfriends. One of the girls looked pregnant and I wondered about the drink she held in her hand. My bff insisted she was just fat. I glanced at this girl’s belly off and on while I sipped my sweetened upon sweetened apple martini and still, it never looked like fat to me. “Fun. Remember?” my friend said.

When the college boys bought rounds of beers and had their chug-a-lug contests, and more gangsters with girlfriends sauntered in, I finished my drink, and walked out. This time my friend followed me, past the Lolita drunken girl, past the full trash can, past the newly formed line in front of the bar that was starting 80’s night, into the car, and home.

My friend said I lasted a lot longer than she thought I would. She said by the next birthday, she knows she will succeed in getting me to have fun. This must be why we have been friends for most of our lives. Our definitions are different, but, we each know, one day, through diligence, we will convince the other the real way to have a blast on our next significant birthdays.