The problems that one might face when going clubbing when you never go clubbing because you are basically the dictionary definition of fugly are myriad and hideous. Allow me to outline them for you:
1. What should I wear? Can you get away with jeans? Do clubs even let you in if you’re wearing jeans? Why am I worrying about wearing jeans, anyway? I never wear bloody jeans! But what else is there? Can’t really go down the old faithful route of leggings and oversized top, can I? Which leads to . . .
2. What can I wear? I don’t have much of a wardrobe, because most shops don’t cater to my “unique” shape, and those that do are usually aimed at fifty-year-old women called Beryl. I have found some gems on the internet, but you do rather run the what size is it really? gamut with online purchases. Spin the dial to see if it’s eight sizes too big and makes you look like someone is trying to drown you in cloth, or eight sizes too small so you look like a badly stuffed sausage. Send us all your financial details to find out! In the end, I settle for the black 50s-style swing dress with the applique skulls on the hem I bought for my prom (which, of course, I didn’t go to), but then that only leads to . . .
3. What kind of place is it? According to Google, it’s “banging.” Right. Is it mainstream? Alternative? Get your head kicked in if you look like you might have, at some point in your life, flirted with emo? Watch your best friend snort drugs off the toilet seat whilst someone else is doing it doggy-style in the stall next to yours? “Banging” does not give me sufficient information! I could rock up in my skull dress and spend the rest of the night shuffling to Little Mix. Which would be hell, and leads me to . . .
4. Music. I will admit that my taste is somewhat eclectic, and I’ve managed to cultivate a taste for stuff that sounds like someone beating R2D2 to death with a guitar. This is fine when you’re feeling angry and alienated, but how does that work in a clubbing scenario? Will I be forced to listen to Chart Shite for the whole evening? Which nicely dovetails into . . .
5. Club etiquette. As in, I do not know it. Get smashed and dance ironically? Cool indifference whilst sipping on a bottle of something I’ve carefully purchased and nursed? (I don’t know why I’m paranoid about date rape drugs. It’s not as if anyone is going to be clamoring to drag my fat, drugged-up ass home. You’d think, anyway.) Do we buy rounds? Shots? Pints? I JUST DON’T KNOW!
6. Coats. It’s fucking freezing out there. Do I take one? Will I need to queue for a cloakroom? Or will I just sit in the corner all night, clutching mine? Or should I just risk it and wear a cardigan and hope it doesn’t rain?
7. Forget cloakrooms—what about simply arriving? Amy said to meet at Sanford’s first. What, inside, outside, in the beer garden, by the bar—where?! I can’t just wander in there on my own. Everyone will look and judge and give me those looks that say “Jeeeesus,” and then I’ll have to run away, which might be a good thing, because then I won’t have to deal with . . .
8. How the holy fuck do I get home? I’m not walking—it’s, like, four miles into town. No buses at that time of night. Uber? Taxi? But that means getting into a car, with a stranger, on my own. Even the thought is enough to make me feel violently ill—how would I cope with the reality?
I think it is safe to say that I did not think this through when I agreed to go out, and now that I have thought it through, I have come to the conclusion that it’s literally the worst idea anyone has ever had in the world, ever. Yes, I know, countless people manage to do this quite happily every week, but I am not one of those people. Those people are well adjusted, non-paranoid, and normal.
I want to cry.
***
When I tell Mum I’m going out for the night, she looks surprised. Well, I suppose it’s better than the usual slack-jawed zombie expression.
“You’re going out?” she says.
“Yeah. With some friends” (yeah, okay, a friend) “from uni.”
“Oh. Oh, that’s good. That’s what you should be doing. You have your phone on you, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mum, I have my phone.” I wave it in front of her.
“Good. So, if you get into any problems—”
“I’ll call. I know.” The fact that you’ll probably be in a medication and wine induced coma by eight thirty won’t interfere with your availability, of course.
“Right. Well. Have fun.”
She smiles at me. I think she’s going for bright but it has come out more brittle. I can’t help but glance toward the stairs.
“I don’t have to go—”
“Yes, you do,” Mum interrupts, with more force than I thought she could ever muster. “This is the kind of thing you should be doing. I did it at your age, and so should you.” It’s the first bit of spark I’ve seen in her in a while now.
“As long as you’re sure,” I mumble.
“I am sure. He isn’t your problem.”
Of course, that’s where she’s wrong.
***
I don’t like getting the bus at night. Okay, so at night encompasses everything after 4:30 p.m. in the UK in winter, but you know what I mean.
I try to make myself comfortable and fight the urge to rub my eyes, aware of how much makeup I’ve plastered on myself. I feel like a fucking rodeo clown. And this dress feels weird. I don’t usually wear dresses. What does one do with one’s legs when wearing a dress? I tug the hem down in a futile attempt at covering my knees. Tights are not the same as leggings. God, I wish I’d worn leggings—
I catch a glimpse of the little rotating info sign. My stop is next. Bollocks. I nearly missed it. Maybe I should take that as a sign and just go home?
But I don’t. Instead, I smooth my skirt down, sling my bag over my head so it crosses my chest like some kind of shield, and grit my teeth.
Time to go get this godforsaken night over and done with.
The bus grinds to a halt and a stream of underdressed people gets off. The night is cold, the air damp. I wish I’d decided to bring my coat and not just my cardigan. Oh well. Too late now. Time to add frizzy hair to tonight’s inevitable list of disasters. If this is the worst thing that happens to me, I guess I’m lucky.
Sanford’s is two streets away. I’m out of my usual Doc Martens (fashionable, comfortable, and above all, wide) and in a ridiculously tottery pair of heels that pinch my toes. I wonder if it’s too early to change into the ballet flats I’ve secreted in my bag. I mean, who am I kidding? I look like I’m walking on ice.
All around me, music blares and signs flicker. The town has transformed from a homogenous shopping blob to a kind of low-rent Vegas. I spy Sanford’s up ahead, and my stomach flips. Come on, girl, you’ve managed to make it this far without completely freaking out. Just a little farther. You can do this.
What if Amy’s late? What if I go in alone and have to sit there, waiting? What if all of this has been a hoax and she’s invited me just to leave me sitting in there while they all stand outside and take photos of me, laughing at how trusting I am, at how easy it is to fool me—
No. Fuck this. I am not going to be made to look like an idiot. Why the hell didn’t Amy say meet her in halls? That’s where she lives—she can’t stand me up there. I know where she lives. I—
My phone buzzes, and I bark out a high-pitched “Shit!” A few scantily clad girls turn in alarm and stare at me. I blush, thankful for the green gunk I bought to go under my foundation, and fumble my phone out of my bag.
I clutch my phone. She says she’s there. But she might not be. She still might be playing a cruel trick. I text back:
I’m outside.
And lo and behold, when I look up I can indeed see the shadowy form of someone waving out of one of Sanford’s windows.
She wasn’t lying. She is here. And she texted me to make sure I was coming. I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or cry.