Ugh, it's true...

It's official: I no can longer go to clubs.

I always knew this day would come, but never so soon. Ok, maybe I should rephrase, lest I spend my weekends prematurely thrust into The Land of No Dancing:

I can no longer go to clubs favoured by children.

This past Friday, the regulars and myself decided to go OUT. Shari had purchased not one, not two, but three DIY smokey eye makeup kits. Yes, that's right. One in each shade of skank.

Naturally, I was chosen to implement the smokey eye effect which had been guaranteed to lure the men. Or randy raccoons with poor eyesight. Now, I rarely wear eye makeup myself, but was sure it would be a piece of cake. Without poking her in either of her eyes and only veering off course once due to incessant laughter, I pulled it off.

Once she had access to a mirror, she thought differently. Here is how the package suggested her eyes would look. Sexy and bad-ass.

This is how it turned out. Sort of. I couldn't get to a camera fast enough.

Once I came to terms that I may not have a future as a MAC counter girl, and Paul had decided he was drunk enough to try and pull off pearl bracelets.....there are no words..... we went out.

Intended look: Actual look:

Club One: Stayed for about 20 minutes, just enough time to do the following:

- look at (or rather, down at) all the short man-boys
- allow Paul to see inside the club, since the last time he had been there, he was camped out in a head-between-knees position in the car
- have one drink
- realize that everyone in there must be under 22
- walk around in a snobby way
- get checked out, natch

Club Two: Stayed for the rest of the night, probably only because we were too lazy to seek out Club Three. Here we encountered the following:

- the clingy 18 year-old girl who goes to the club wearing Lulu Lemon pants. Yeah.
- the point where Shari's "wicked, awesome, why haven't I been wearing these all summer?" shoes become the "I'll be sitting down over there" shoes
- high school guy who hit on me with the opener, "I'm a professional fighter" and followed up with "I'm 20. Well, 19, almost 20." I followed up with, "Don't follow me."

Seriously, why so young? Why so annoying? Where can one of a...certain age dance it up without fear of munchkins who are out past their curfew?