It even brought up some going out anxiety that I can only decipher as one thing: old age.
As the week went on, I started to think about what I would wear. In college this would be an easy decision: jeans, a going out top and some kind of platform shoe.
But that was Santa Barbara, circa 2000 and this was Paris, circa 2012. Ah crap.
Knowing that whatever I wore would probably only be used once, I went and bought something new and cheap at H&M - you know, something to get me through. I needed an outfit that would be bar and then nightclub appropriate. I figured the turtleneck Zara sweaters I wear to work wouldn't cut it. Thankfully, I found a royal blue dress that didn't scream old fart, yet didn't scream American hooker either, and I snatched it up for 20 Euros. Paired with a pair of opaque tights and some black bottines, I thought I had hit the nail on the head, that whole "not trying too hard" look.
When we got to the bar, my old age started to rear its ugly head again - why wasn't the bartender coming and taking my order right away? Who was I going to talk to? Why were the other people in the group acting drunk? Was I the only responsible person in this place? Why was there no where to hang my coat?
When someone ordered a pitcher of margaritas with multiple straws, all I could think of was : germs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Then, when people decided to move the party to the nightclub and it started raining, I thought, hmmm, go home safely now with someone else heading towards my neck of the woods, or wait in a line in the rain to get into a club?
Even though it was Copain's birthday and I was the copine, I peaced out, just like an old fart would. How depressing is that? I can see it now: Santa Barbara party girl gets old, leaves Copain at his own party.
Now there's a sad story for you.