Outgrowing club culture

Last month I did something I very rarely do now that I’m in my late 20s — I headed to King West to dance the night away in celebration of a friend’s birthday. I’m more than content to do as the lucky birthday guy/gal chooses to commemorate being another year older…even if it isn’t on my top list of things to do.

Now don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy an evening out with friends because I am most definitely a music junkie. Not the kind that you spot singing their hearts out while driving, but the kind who won’t leave home without a fully-charged iPod.

There is no denying my love for music and that immediate sense of urgency you feel to hit a crowded dance floor whenever you hear the DJ spinning your favourite tune (or playing it from his/her Mac these days). For me, nothing gets me moving faster than a little Jay Z. (Watch the Throne Tour in Toronto has to be one of my most memorable misadventures with Rosy)

But despite all that, the problem is there’s something brewing beneath that forces me to accept you’re not the same person who once spent countless nights in Toronto’s club district.

It’s the club culture itself I’ve outgrown. The tug on your arm by someone eager to share their latest pick-up line, the exorbitant cost for drinks, the bathroom lineups — or rather, chaos confined to filthy stalls full of people struggling to stand on two feet — and worst of all, the bar fights. The features all rolled into one night generate only one thought in my head, “Oh right, this is why I don’t do this anymore.” While it’s so clear to me, I can’t help but think who on Earth wants this life weekend after weekend?

And I will admit at 19 I couldn’t wait to put together an outfit paired with four-inch Stilettos and dance the night away in good company. Anything else just made for good memories. After all, it would be a sin not to put your now legal-age ID to good use. Now, I would much rather spend my time doing anything else that involve me feeling as if my feet required amputation by the end of it.

What I find even more dreadful is, “Hey Stef, let’s go to Toronto this weekend” will surely present itself again. While I would hate to miss out on the possibility of a good night, I know that it’s about time I retire my dancing shoes. My friends may be disappointed, but my feet will thank me.


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