Why clubbing is still fun at 30 and beyond

Well, clubbing at the age of 30 and beyond is not really fun per se.

This past weekend I made my semi-annual trip to a club in San Francisco. It was an early celebration for my brother-in-law’s birthday and it was a late celebration for my cousin’s birthday. It was also the first time my sister has been out in 10 months (she gave birth not too long ago). I thought it was reason enough to get off my ass and re-familiarize myself with the “club” scene in the city.

Yeah. Nothing has changed since I was a rampant club goer.

Now let me back up for a second. I am a non-drinker. Yes you heard that right. I do not consume alcoholic beverages. I used to, but now it is just a distant hangover in the past – but I will get to that story some other time.

I don’t even like the term “clubbing.” It insinuates that you are going out to the driving range or you are going to hunt wombats with a bat. I don’t know what it is, but as each year passes, that term just becomes one of those words that falls on my “annoying vernacular list” that includes words such as “momversation” and “staycation.”

In all the years I’ve been clubbing – drunken and sober – there hasn’t been one single drop-dead gorgeous person that I have swooned over. That’s why alcohol and dimly-lit rooms play a big part in the club-going experience. It makes everyone look attractive – or at least semi-attractive.

When I was drunk back in my “clubbing” days, I think I was too faded to realize where I was to make a move on somebody. Now, in my sober days, I admit that I look like a snob at a club. No, I am a snob at the club. I am constantly people watching – which is basically a nice way of saying “judging everyone around me with a pompous side eye.”

Poorly fitted one-shouldered draped blouses, muffin tops, faux hawks, sunglasses indoors, overly embellished jeans and Ed Hardy as far as the eye can see. As for me, I keep it simple: black button down shirt (always tucked in), a pair of slacks and my Chelsea boots. It’s a look that says, “I am mourning the fact that I don’t party like you people anymore” and at the same time it says “Please don’t even try to approach me because I am a snob.”

The first club we went to that weekend was Bambuddha Lounge. I heard the food was pretty good there, but we were not there for culinary treats. We were there to “club.” We entered into a bar where scantily clad Pussycat Doll-like dancers were gyrating on the bar whilst a mediocre crowd lounged around.

I wondered if we were too early. It was 11:45 p.m. and since I am not the disco bunny that I used to be, I wondered if the time when “things got crunk” had shifted.

My fellow club goers got drinks as I sat on one of the couches to enjoy the music and check my e-mail on my Blackberry – which is always a good way to kill time in non-poppin’ environments. It also makes you look important. Time passed and the crunkness still hadn’t eased its way into the club.

With no one getting a buzz and the lack of booty shaking, we decided to head to Fluid in SoMa.

Luckily, one of my brother-in-law’s friends had the hook-up there so we got the VIP treatment. Meaning, we were led to the back of the club in a lounge area away from the moist crowd of Forever 21-o-philes. We were served Grey Goose (I had a refreshing bottled water) and the music started to flow into our veins.

People started to loosen up and dancing as I jokingly gyrated behind my cousin’s roommate who looks like Chandler Bing – sweater vest and all.

I wasn’t necessarily bored, but I wasn’t exactly ready to say, “This is the best night ever!” I was content. I threw down with my krumpin’ skills and even treated the crowd to my sassy swagger while singing along to Usher’s “Bad Girl.” Even with the really bad Michael Jackson homage mix (for real, who plays “Dirty Diana” in a club without brass poles?), I had no choice but to strut my crotch grab.

When it comes down to it, it was all about the company. I even appreciated that creepy middle-aged man who joined us for a split second to admire my cousin’s leopard print dress.

Even at 30, I realized that clubbing is still a must – even if I don’t drink. It gives you a taste of a life that you had before – both good and bad. For one, it makes you remember those carefree days when all you had to worry about was where you were gonna grub after. Secondly, it makes you remember why you no longer do it every weekend (mainly because the people in the clubs make you feel old and the fighting that occasionally breaks out on the dancefloor – but then again, who doesn’t love a “were you looking at my girl?!” fight?).

Ultimately, it keeps you grounded. I realized that I was just as poorly dressed and drunkenly erratic as many of the people I saw that night. I remember those days with a bittersweet taste in my mouth. I thought staying out until 4 a.m. was cool and that throwing up in the parking lot was a badge of honor. It reminds me of how I changed and how it was good (for the most part) to have a life like that in the past.

Now, I look forward to my Friday nights of catching up with my DVR and eating a whole cookie cake – now that’s partying.