I went out on a very rare girls night on Saturday, the man took the kids away for the night so that I could have the house to myself and us girls could have a lay in the next morning, undisturbed by screaming children. All of us mums, being able to wake up with a hangover in peace is almost more of a treat than being let loose on the town in the first place.
Going out these days provokes far more anxiety now than it did when I was going out every weekend, or even every night. Just getting ready is panic inducing. We just want to blend in and look like everyone else, and not like we’re thinking “I feel more comfortable in a baby sick covered t-shirt”. Then there is the underwear dilemma. Wear a thong that allows your, albeit wobbly, bum to be unfettered by panty lines but allows your mummy tummy to poke out over the top of your jeans, or pour yourself into a huge pair of Bridget Jones style “shape makers” that make your stomach look like nice and flat but give you VPL that could be seen from space (not to mention the inevitable panic when you are drunk, need a wee and not quite sure whether you will manage to unbind yourself on time). It’s a tough call.
Anyway, underwear decisions made and having trashed my bedroom in the process, we had a few drinks at home before getting a cab to take us into town. I always feel kind of sorry for taxi drivers picking up groups of drunken women. The peace of his taxi is immediately ruined by heads popping between the seats shouting “Oy oy, we’re mums on a night out! What’s your name love? Ian? Hi Ian, ah thanks for taking us out, it doesn’t happen often. Did we tell you we’re mums and don’t get out much?”
Another worry for women of a certain age is that groups of women don’t tend to talk to other groups of women on a night out, other than to ask for a light (or in my case talking to young girls “Ooh sweetie you must be freezing! Wish I could get away with wearing that. Don’t forget to drink some water before bed dear.”). It’s not like being in the queue in Tesco where you can talk to the lady in the queue behind you about the advertised “one in front” policy which never seems to be in force. I like to talk to everyone, but will admit to feeling intimidated by other groups of women. You can never be quite sure whether they are going to be nice to your face and then turn round to their friend and say “Did you see the panty line on THAT?”
No, women on a night out talk to men. Because men aren’t intimidating, and believe it or not, most men don’t notice whether you have a huge panty line or not, they are too busy trying to work out whether or not they can pull you and whether or not they could get anything better if they did. And most men who are out on the town love to chat to groups of women, it’s their reason for being there. Until they realise you are married/have a boyfriend/are old enough to be their mum, then they tend to pop off pretty sharpish. But not before they have done their duty of telling you how you don’t look your age/can’t believe you have kids/are gutted you are spoken for.
So we staggered between a few places, had some drinks, got some compliments off lads young enough to be our offspring. One of us realised she was accidentally ringing her mum in her bag (“please don’t call again, it will wake your son up who I’m babysitting”) and tried to convince her mum that she wasn’t actually that drunk (while the rest of us shouted “OY OY!” down the phone), before someone suggested the local strip bar. Always up for anything we boldly went in, had a drink and my friends paid for me to have a lap dance on stage with the stripper of my choice (I’m glossing over this because a) I know my mum is reading and will be trying to crawl inside herself in embarrassment and b) everyone knows what a lap dance looks like, and I fear spelling it out would not be the classiest of moves). So another tick off my bucket list (hey I’m 34, I need to start ticking things off) we headed for the local club.
The trouble with having only one nightclub in a town is having no competition, it doesn’t actually have to be that good to be full of people. So you are rinsed with a huge door and cloakroom fee, which you regret as soon as you get in there and start to think that maybe it’s time to go home. But being sensible mums (I’ve paid for this and I’m going to get my money’s worth goddammit), you can’t quite justify leaving, so you hang around hoping to get some kind of value for money. Which frankly, ain’t gonna happen when the music is courtesy of the Venga Boys and you spend the entire time outside having a fag anyway.
So we stayed until our 2am curfew (“Oy Ian, book us in for 2am would ya? Ta Love”) during which time, one of us fell asleep in her woo-woo and I told as many people as possible about my lap dance (classy). Falling into my front door, spilling kebabs as we did so, we declared the night a success. It was brilliant, did we mention we are mums and don’t get out much?
