I have been known to cut the rug every now and again. I can even do an impressive Running Man. And a, less impressive, sprinkler.
Even as I rapidly approach the mid-life crisis age, I figured I could keep up fairly well with the young whippersnappers on the Las Vegas club scene. So, I scrounged through my suitcase to find my finest clubbing attire, which turned out to be a wrinkled swimsuit coverup dress and a pair of espadrilles. All the platform heels, hot pants and strapless leather had left my closet about ten years ago.
All dolled up, we strutted to 1 Oak at the Mirage.
1 Oak is the newest hotspot on the Las Vegas strip, a club that blends art, fashion and celebrity status. I like to doodle, watch Project Runway and subscribe to US Magazine. Maybe this is the perfect club for me.
It was 10:28. They open at 10:30 and there was no line. Why? Because any respectable party goer knows that you should not show up to a nightclub before midnight. I am not respectable. Or a partyer.
My girlfriend and I stood in the non-existent line for a max of thirty seconds before a baby-faced bouncer approached my gal pal and said, “Ma’am”, that’s a bad start, “no flip flops in the club”. On this evening she had opted for comfort, but that is not an option here.
We were kicked out of the club. Technically, out of the line at the club. That may be worse.
We turned away half laughing hysterically and half embarrassed, but still we went back to our hotel room to swap her illegal flip flops for her fancier thongs with a one inch heel and marched right back to the club. We may have had a cocktail, or two, in-between.
By the time of our surely anticipated return, 1 Oak had a herd of barely dressed females waiting to enter. I hiked up my skirt. An inch. And took my stance at the back of the line.
Chaos ensued as we were herded from line to line. Even though we had wristbands that ensured entry, we waited and there was no shmoozing the 21 year old attendant. He must not be into that whole cougar thing.
We immediately took our VIP drink tickets to the bar to redeem for Sky Vodkas and Diet Cokes, now we were ready to case the joint.
We took a loop around the perimeter of the club, weaving in and out of youngsters on the prowl. We then made our way to the dance floor which was a severe traffic jam of sweaty bodies who could do nothing more than barely bounce up and down in place. Hands were groping, drinks were flying and music bursting my ear drum.
I feel old. I don’t like random bodies touching me and if you spill your drink on me I’m probably going to pop you in the head and your music is giving me a headache. Time to go.
The next night we decided to take an entirely different turn from cougardom and see a show, Menopause the Musical at the Luxor. And even though I am not there yet, I thought I would either relate or be scared crapless about my inevitable womanly future. Turns out a little bit of both.
The crowd was that of mostly 50+ who howled at every other line. And it was freaking funny.
It is 90-minutes of poking fun at hot flashes, wrinkles, forgetfulness, mood swings and chocolate cravings.
I feel young again.
Have you had any experience traveling where you feel old? Or young?