We went out dancing the other night. Old me and old(er) D. I enjoyed myself, I don’t think I can say the same for the mister though. We are already at that age when music is too loud. Being in Dublin (the only half decent place to dance in Chennai) on a Saturday night surrounded by scantily clad kids of varying heights, weights, and shapes made us realise that we’re different now. We can’t do this anymore.
I remember the good ol’ days when I’d queue for hours outside in the cold, sometimes wet night, but it was cool, we’d entertain ourselves while we waited. Then we’d get in finally, and it would be packed so tight it was a wonder we were even allowed in. Surely there was a maximum capacity? Anyway, we’d just be happy we were in, and we’d join the next queue – for drinks. And then, ages later, armed with our drinks, we’d squeeze out of the bar queue to try find some space we could occupy. Then we’d promptly spill our drinks too because it was just too crowded to walk round holding liquid in a cheap plastic cup. So we’d have to down it. And then we’re back to the queue. Vicious cycle really…
Dancing back then was a lot of jumping, pushing, and elbowing. It was kind of like having a fit on the dance floor and not caring that your once clean shoes now look like garbage. Your jeans rip too because some blonde ho wearing stilettos jumps on them. (Seriously, stilettos?) Then there’s the mosh pits or how to be violent in a crowded room and get away with it in the name of music. What the hell were they about? I hated them. If I was in the presence of one today, I’d probably cry. And end up breaking a few bones. The other night, dancing was more like nodding and bouncing around a bit while standing happily in a nice corner, not close to too many people. Not only were our drinks promoted from plastic to glass containers, we also finished them without spillage. After a little more bouncing around, we left, thinking, oh what a late night – we should go home and get some sleep. How sensible.
Back in the day, the night would probably end at the overcrowded club we queued to get into, and then it would move on to somewhere else that we may need to queue at. We’d still be wide awake, albeit a little sore from jumping, but that can be cured later, right? I don’t know how we did it, us little cherubs. When we finally did get home, we’d just go to bed, wake up the next morning (or in a few hours, whichever we had), have a shower and be ready for the entire (rest of the) day ahead. And we got First Class degrees. Today, this would be get up, groan, and die. Oh, and we’d be fired…
Times are a-changing…