Month 12 of the Year 30

So, here we are…the end of my journey on the year 30!! Before I sign off on the year 30, however, I must relate my latest adventure.

For my final adventure, I needed to do something exciting and extraordinary—but, as promised in month 1, there will be none of that in this blog; the exciting and extraordinary will have to wait for another year. What I managed to do this month was more like interesting and ordinary, things that most people did as teenagers or college students: smoking and going to a dance club. Now, some of my young, sensitive readers may balk at one or both of these activities, but rest assured, I engaged in them merely as blog-worthy experiences. I don’t intend on becoming a wild party girl after one carefully planned, responsible night of debauchery, as you will see.

Smoking and going clubbing at age 30 (I presume) is totally different than at age 18 or 21. First of all, my friends are all old now, too; many are married with children—and already tired. They are mature, responsible people who now think through the consequences of damaging their health by using harmful substances or losing sleep—boring, right?! I am normally responsible as well and have been since I was like ten, so I skipped the whole teenage experimentation stage. Which is why 30 is the new 16 for me. But my friends, by and large, passed through this stage so that when I called saying, “Hey, do you want to smoke a cigarette and go to a club with me?” they weren’t necessarily overly excited about it. No, I have in-laws coming tomorrow and can’t stay out late. I have to work late. I have family in town for the holidays. It’s going to be crazy-busy going out this time of year. The only friend truly excited about going out was Deana, four months pregnant who could not enjoy a smoke with or around me and who had to work early Saturday morning. I had to hurry up and have this adventure before we all started wearing dentures. 

Not only was it difficult at age 30 to recruit people to smoke and club, all of the planning and responsibility involved removed any illusion that I was acting like a footloose teenager. Hey guys, I want to smoke one cigarette on Friday night—are you in? I experienced smoker’s frustration when I realized I wouldn’t be able to light up in the club or at any of my friends’ smoke-free homes. I would be relegated to some surreptitious puffing in the cold night air, in an area where no one would judge me or ban me. As a would-be smoker, I was faced with how unfriendly people were to my hypothetical actions. I also had to decide: did I want to buy a pack of cigs or bum one off a stranger—both new experiences. And which club to go to? Though it would’ve been truly funny to ride the bull at some sleazy club, I couldn’t bring myself to choose that. Instead we decided on the most respectable club we could find. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

The night of my last year 30 adventure, I hauled myself out of the armchair around 7:00 p.m. to begin getting ready. I have to confess that the thought of sliding into some comfy pajamas and curling up with a good sitcom was infinitely more appealing at that moment than going out on the town. My friend Deana (did I mention she turned 30 this year also?) confessed she felt the same way; going out nowadays can be such a hassle. Nevertheless, like the good old days (when I was twenty-something), I tried on numerous outfits and heaped up the rejects on my bed. What was the closest thing to cool club wear that I owned? My sister Allison, who was accompanying me, acted as my Yoda in all matters of club etiquette. It was much easier to locate in my belongings some loud, sparkly jewelry and a bottle of body shimmer. 

At Deana’s, we were joined by three sweet girls I didn’t know, who graciously refrained from laughing at a 30 year-old girl so evidently unworldly-wise. 

  

Someone should have told me these were real--not candy-cigarettes...

After appetizers, we headed to a nearby convenience store so I could buy my first (and last) pack of cigs. We settled on a pack of Marlboro Lites and I was pleased as punch to be carded. Part of the store clerk’s training must include abstention from moral judgments. He did not bat an eye at my pregnant friend’s purchase of a six pack (for her husband) nor her hanging around with the likes of chainsmoking me. On our way back to the house, I stuck my nose down in the cigarette carton and almost gagged, the smell was so disgusting. We appointed a designated smoking area outside of Deana’s house and the moment had arrived. It was not as complicated to smoke as I’d thought; nor was coordination as necessary either. It was a strange sensation, for sure, feeling the sort of burning in my throat, and seeing clouds of smoke issue from my mouth. How I wish I could have blown smoke circles like they do on TV. Instead I coughed, so at least I had the typical smoking experience in that way; everyone on TV always coughs their first time. Of course, I had the additional pressures of the peanut gallery ranged around me offering critiques. “Elisabeth, you are not inhaling.” In between puffs, I protested that I was. “You should feel it in your chest.” I couldn’t tell if I felt it there or not, but despite all of the interference, I managed to smoke almost the whole thing. When Allison joked about the loss of my lungs’ purity, I felt sad momentarily, like I’d lost something after all. The next morning, when my voice was scratchy and I kept needing to spit, I wondered if the effects of my smoking habit had already set in. 

 

To mask the sense of loss, I did what any twenty-one year-old would do—head for the club. Though it was almost 11:00 p.m., past my normal bedtime, Allison insisted that now was the time the party got started on the dance floor. Deana, Allison, and I drove uptown to the most un-skanky club we could find. Once inside the club’s seedy interior, I was confronted by that oh-so-familiar middle school dance awkwardness. Not many people were dancing yet but were hanging back in the shadows against the walls. Almost immediately our little group was approached by an older wild-eyed man (he may not have been wild-eyed but it was too dark to say that he was not) who asked us each in succession if we wanted to dance. I think he asked me last, after my sister and my pregnant, married friend. Perhaps the outfit wasn’t club-cool after all. But wonderfully, it didn’t much matter to me. You see, when you’re 30, you just don’t care anymore about some things. In my younger years, I would have cared about looking nice and meeting a guy out; nowadays, I don’t want to meet a guy “out.” I’d rather meet a guy in church or at the grocery store than in a club. At age 30, you just want to have fun dancing with your girlfriends and not be accosted by wild-eyed men. After murmuring some excuse to him, we stationed ourselves near an unfortunate wall—unfortunate because the wall was a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Though some dancers quite enjoyed busting a move and watching the results in the mirror, we turned our backs to it to escape the sight. On the rare occasion I caught a glimpse of myself dancing, I shuddered and turned away. 

Finally, the music really picked up, the dance floor filled, and the shyness was gone. It is so much fun to be a 30 year-old clubber! We danced for about two hours straight until we wore out my poor little pregnant friend. We had so much fun that I forgot to bum a light and join my fellow smokers on the patio, but I guess that is one experience I’ll have to forego…And thus ended the year 30!

Thank you to all of you who have cheered me on and let me know you’ve been reading my blog this year. It’s been such a fun, memorable experience. Though I don’t plan to continue blogging at this time, I’ve themed the upcoming year “31 and counting.” That way, I can continue trying new experiences all year (and life) long. Thanks for sharing this journey with me!!