It’s official – I am past my prime. You know you’re well past your sell by date when you intentionally leave the house with a book in your handbag as you head out to a club. The book being the back up plan to staving off boredeom an hour or so into proceedings because either…
a) you don’t know any of the songs everybody is hollering to and, you don’t really care,
b) you find yourself complaining that the music is too loud and you can’t hear yourself think,
c) those shoes you thought were such a good idea when you left the house are giving you a backache, a headache and creating mutant bunions or, in the most unfortunate circumstances,
d) …all of the above!
A friend invited me out Saturday, and I was loath to go, coz nowadays a good book and my substantially pimped out futon (in the manner of Xzibit and his rides), a glass of Diet Pepsi and soulful music wafting out of the computer is my idea of a good night out. Here, annoyingly, you can’t leave the club at 3am coz there is no transport; the first train around 5.30 is your first chance of escape. People jump on that train like a fat chick on chocolate cake after a stint at the Fat Farm (I should know). So armed with the book in my bag, I headed out to the club.
Legend has it that white people can’t dance, I guess that’s because nobody has ever seen the Japanese version of dancing. It’s excruciating; needles-in-your-eyes or burning-coals-being-branded-into-your-skull painful doesn’t do justice to what passes for dance moves here (that they try to emulate from MTV). The Japanese version.
So of course now it’s up to a sister to represent and tear up the dance floor. But it is at this point that my joints decide they have other plans, and tolerating 5 creaking hours of abuse does not constitute part of their mandate. They know they should be at home lying down. So one thumping song later (incidentally Luda’s Move fool get out the way etc), tail tucked between my legs, I got out the way, slinked into a corner and 4 hours later, left the club having worked my way through a couple of hundred pages.
I guess at some point I should express regret at no longer being able to keep up with my younger compatriots, but to be fair, I did my bit for the cause in my day, because hey, ndakambo representa. On a scale of 0 to 1 for representing, I was a 2. To the extent of being marked on the register at Circus every Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
So shove in the false teeth, bring forth the carpet slippers, the cane, the bifocal glasses, coz I am officially taking my first steps towards geriatry.
Hunched over, shuffling and proud.