My friend turned thirty and threw herself a party at a Hollywood club.
Ugh.
I went to that club against my will and became the thirty-year-old I used to make fun of as a twenty-year-old. Due to the existence of my self-esteem and the fact that I wore pants, I stuck out in that place like a pair of real breasts on Hollywood Boulevard. I don't even know how I got in. This was some "really cool" place where you have to know someone who knows someone to get past the judgmental doormen. The kind of place that lines the walls with rich men and their bottle service. The kind of place that's so cool, some people's egos actually burst when they walk through the door. When they slid open the velvet rope for me, I even said "That's how it's done." Gross.
This involuntary clubbing excursion cemented for me the fact that I will never ever step foot in a Hollywood club again. Because I'm just too old. And uncool. And I'd rather spend my nights talking with people who know what it's like to pay their own rent or have heard of things like politics, Panama, or pants.
I wasn't always so boring and interested in men who could talk about more than the alphabet. Let's take a look at how hip I actually was back when I used to laugh at 30-year-olds:
One day back at the turn of the century, when I was living off my stash of unused Y2K supplies, I actually requested that someone document this getup. I wanted to remember just how alluring I looked in these stylish high-waisted pleather slacks that tapered lovingly towards the ankle. And of course the classy bikini-ish top with extra expensive wrap strings. Hot hot hot. Plus, I wouldn't dare forget the mushroom haircut, which I have to brag is not that far from that of Anna Wintour (if the lady is so fashionable, why does she have my Y2K hairdo?).
I'll admit it: I met truckloads of men wearing this outfit. Men love pleather. And the dapper clubgoing man can't resist a mushroom 'do atop a tiny bikini top. Worked like a charm, as I met quality man after quality man who would buy me Red Bull and offer me illegal substances by the bathroom. Ah, those were the days. The days of cutting lines. The days of leaving the house at midnight. The days of going to bed at noon.
They were fun. They were exciting. They are over.
Thank the heavens, they are over.
I realize they are not over for some. I know there are 20-year-olds out there who feel a rush when they get into hot spots with fake IDs and go on dates with anyone in some sort of circle with any celebrity, even if it's the cousin of the neighbor of that guy, Buddy, from Charles in Charge. Celebrity Adjacent works. I get it. I had different goals then, as the twenty-year-olds of today do.
But there is an epidemic among these club-going girls, and I must reach out to them. This epidemic is sweeping Hollywood, and I'm shocked at how little press it's getting. It's the plague of the streetwalkers. It's Anna Wintour's fault, I assume. Somebody started a trend, and I'm guessing it's her. Judging by my photo, I don't exactly follow fashion. But someone... some powerful fashion jerk told these young girls they should try their best to look like desperate hookers and then successfully manufactured "dresses" out of napkins.
It's gross. I have never seen so many almost-privates in my life. These lady parts are barely dressed and able to peek out without notice. GIRLS! I can see your perineum when you dance. Stop it. Just stop it.
Clubgoers, beware! Bodily fluids are splashing like lazy martinis all over the dance floor and we ALL MUST BE AWARE. These dresses of today are too small to be called dresses. These dresses of today are too small to be called shirts. This is a tragedy! Anna Wintour, please help.
I realize that these ho costumes are just an updated version of my pleather, so I would like to tell these girls from experience: don't do it. These outfits will only get you dates with drug dealers, men who drive Beamers but live with their parents, and guys who will date you for three months and then disappear.
But who am I to teach lessons? Everyone has to learn for herself. My mom told me not to wear pleather, and look where it got me: wearing pleather. So I shall stop acting old. I shall stop judging and preaching. I will be silent and hold onto the hope that by the time I have a daughter who is of age to hit the clubs, Polygamist Sect Skirts will be all the rage. Anna, you have about thirty years to make this happen.
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Got to call it: the outfits above turn class to crass.
Marilyn