Stepping Out...

I expect to be clubbing later tonight. I have heard on the pop songs that this is what young twentysomethings are supposed to do with their time. And when society demands, I deliver. I was expecting to put on extravagant clothing and step out in a nuts crazy fashion, á la club kids, minus the copious drug use. However, it seems all the DC clubs have very strict dress codes now, and you must look like a little lady when grinding on your neighbor. The website informed me (to my horror) that I would not be granted admission to Ultrabar if I wore my Doc Martins, or "work boots" as they so derogatively called them. So I'll be stumbling in heels instead of stomping triumphantly around the dance floor. But that's fine, I guess.

The only real concern I have is that they won't let me in because my coat - what I'll be taking off once I get inside - could technically be called "athletic wear," a type of dress that makes the bouncer's noses wrinkle and the go-go girls' skin crawl. But I won't be wearing it in the club. I'll be depositing it in the basement, in the small room in which they stored a coat-check girl and a couple million hangers. However, if they do deny me entry, we'll go to another club - a better club, even. And we'll never patronize their patronizing club ever again. So there.