Especially since leaving a conservative Christian university and entering what some term to be the real world, I have covertly, sometimes unconsciously, fostered a sense of pride regarding irresponsible behaviors that I did not engage in during college. To name them here would not only be futile and tedious, it would probably only perpetuate any such arrogant sentiments. Whatever. There are lots of people who didn't participate in such things and there is no reason for them, or me, to run around telling tales of self-discipline and restraint.
The reality is, however, that I live in a city, I'm young, and I no longer exist inside the strict, but necessary, constructs of a Christian university. And I guess I'm somewhat curious. I'm wise enough, and self-aware enough not to "go crazy," as so many of my high school friends predicted that I would when I went off to college. Some people really believe that motivated women who style their hair conservatively have a secret desire to toss away reason with reckless abandon when offered the right opportunity. No, up to this date, I have not loosed my hair and started acting like a freshman sorority girl because some enlightened male gave me cause. For me, exercising new-found freedom consists of no longer apologizing for an occasional penchant for top 40 commercialized rap and drinking a pint of beer at a low-lit bar once a week. But over the past few months, I have managed to make my way into two environments that pushed the bounds of my newly expanded standards of decorum and sophistication.
The first took place about a month ago. Soon afterwards, I wanted to chronicle it on this blog, but never got around to it. Just as well, I guess. Here's the deal: through a former connection at work, I managed to get a large group of friends on the guest list at Soundbar, one of the pretentiously sleek clubs in downtown Chicago. The night was in celebration of a good friend's 21st birthday; apparently she wanted it to be done right. Some of friends decided to plan an evening that was neither a sleazy, down-21-shots-of-vomitous-alcohol evening at somebody's house, nor a staid exchange of gifts and polite blowing-out-of-candles occasion. Primarily, I felt ambivalent about going out to a club, although I guess I was a bit nervous about what to expect.
After dinner all 20 of us walked over to the club to show our IDs and get started. I explored the two floors of the club and laid down $10 for an apple martini. Within 20 minutes I felt like a cliche. I had a black evening dress on, and I was dancing with a drink in my hand, most of it drizzling down my arm. What else does one do in such an establishment? One man had the courtesy to ask me to dance (I politely declined), while others simply felt entitled to come up behind me, or make a grab at my waist. I wondered if women tolerated this kind of thing regularly, or why men felt that because a woman entered a club she was interested in being grabbed by a stranger without permission. Are there different rules? I was grateful for the guys in our group, who managed to discreetly maneuver most such men away. Although I was somewhat put out by this behavior, I was even less prepared for what I saw at the lounge next door.
Around 1 a.m., we left Soundbar and went to the lounge next door. We had VIP access to a partially concealed lounge, which turned out to be convenient as most of our group was shielded from the two provocative dancers, who, among other things, wore large feather boots. While I was beginning to feel like I was having a bizarre out-of-body experience, most other patrons, outside of my group, looked pleased with themselves, slovenly kissing whomever they happened to be with and preening themselves in between dancing. One woman in particular was almost impossible to ignore in the melee of buzzed 20 and 30 somethings. She wore spike heels, an expensive scrap of a dress, and was, in a most focused manner, kissing some dark-skinned handsome man at the bar. This was not terribly surprising--I've seen worse on the train--but I could scarcely conceal astonishment when she turned around and began doing the same with a white-haired 60-something man to her left. Her drunkenness was apparent, but her soul was sober enough to allow her to slump over the martini glass at the bar and sob. Once this spectacle began, the Spanish-looking man walked away, but the older man began patting her shoulder in a way I can only describe as fatherly. He was probably married, his wife at home knowing the truth.
As I watched, the whole scene seemed almost staged--a few minutes from Sex and the City, or some other banal TV program. I felt like I shouldn't be watching, yet I could hardly help it. Do people really live this way? Spend their weekends this way? We left that club soon afterwards; there was talking of going somewhere else, but I think we had all seen enough. By 1 or 2 a.m., things really begin deteriorating at clubs, and at some bars. If you're not drunk, or not hooking up, you wonder why you're there, and begin to feel guilty about witnessing and judging behavior that is drenched in alcohol.
Fortunately, the second time I went out dancing was not nearly so traumatic. I went out to a neighborhood tavern in Wicker Park that features an evening that they title Sheer Magic. Within its dimly lit and limited space, a couple of DJs spin soul/funk music from the sixties and seventies for the fifty people that have somehow packed themselves onto a tiny dance floor. It's way fun, although sometimes I felt strange dancing to the same music that my mom probably did when she was 16. Oh well. My children will probably dance to Justin Timberlake remixes someday and I won't have anything to say about it. Anyway, all of the dancing, and the people, and the fans turned on full blast, and the one beer that I had finished two hours prior left me feeling a bit disoriented and dreamy (that feeling you have after a long afternoon nap) as I drove home around 1 a.m. It was raining on the empty streets, and I was listening to something chill--we'll say something equivalent to Snow Patrol. And at a stop light, some little cross-eyed boy, no more than 14 or 15, appeared next to my car (if you have ever been on Western Avenue at 1 o'clock in the morning in that neighborhood perhaps you have seen him too). He came within 6 inches of my window, looked at my face, and began to shake his cup for change. Usually I turn away, but I couldn't help but stare. The weirdness of it all near paralyzed me; I knew that I was being rude. When I didn't roll down my window to give him money, he extended open palms to the side of his body and began to thrust them up and down aggressively--"Come on, come on"--as if I owed him money. I did nothing but stare at him until the light changed. There was nothing normal or familiar about that night or driving at that hour, alone; as I continued to drive I struggled to integrate myself--little white, type-A, female, conservative, inexperienced me--with such new and odd experiences. Until six months ago I knew nothing, experientially, of the city, night life, the normative practices of other twenty-somethings, sometimes thirty-somethings, or of little boys begging for money at all hours. And though I enjoy the freedom outside of the constraints of my prior environment, I find that I have no desire to partake of normative, twenty-something night life practices. Since most of them seem like they have been getting drunk and getting cozy with strangers for a decent amount of time, I feel like an outsider, and strange for going out only to dance. All of the evils associated with clubs and bars that I was warned repeatedly about in high school youth group--the deadly slippery slope--turn out to be less seductive in nature, and more pitifully boring than generally marketed.
