The Age of Aquariawkwardness

Monday night I tried to go clubbin'. Emphasis on tried since I failed miserably. I didn't fail in the sense that I clubbed poorly...I failed at ever getting through the metal detecting door. Right now, in your heads, you're thinking it's because I'm not of age. You're picturing some big bouncer type with a lot of gold jewelry glancing at my learners permit, shaking his head at me and saying, "What are you tryin' to pull kid? It's twenty-one and up here at Aquarius." But you're horribly wrong. I was turned away because I'm too old.

No, seriously.

For the two of you who don't know, Aquarius is the hottest club in Rochester if you're talking to someone who's thirteen and owns multiple halter tops or someone who sells drugs. It's the only club in town if you're talking to anyone else. From everything I've heard (which isn't much since I can't seem to find any hipsters who've ever...you know...been there...), it's pretty gross and sad. But, seeing the neon sign blink across the way, constantly radiating above the city street lights mere blocks away from my home of eighteen years has had a profound effect on me. Aquarius Club is the Daisy to my Gatsby. I've been fostering a sick curiosity mingled with terror and hope about that place since, at age eight, I first asked my mother, "Mommy, what do they do in there?" and she hurriedly answered, "Um, they dance. Who wants ice-cream?" Nice try mom, but your sly subject-change only served to deepen the mystery.

A mystery that can only be solved in one way: I have to go. Colleen, Tracy and Christa have also felt the mysteriously drawn to the Roch's "hottest" night spot, and we've been planning a visit since last summer. "Do you still want to go?" we ask each other. "No, not really," we answer, "But I feel that I must." Really, its almost noble.

Finally, the big night rolled around and the four of us met at my house where we stalled for about an hour before setting out to stall in the Aquarius parking lot for another ten minutes. When we finally got up the nerve to actually enter the club, a girl behind a cash register took Tracy's money, looked at her and said, "How old are you"

"Um, twenty." She and Christa answered.

Though the girl behind the counter could have easily begun her response with a polite, "Oh, I'm sorry," or an empathetic, "How unfortunate for you!", she chose "uh-uh." for an opener. Like, "nice try, creepies." She continued with, "It's teen night. Thirteen to eighteen only." So we turned around and left for Denny's. Broken, ashamed and all together anticlimatized.

I wish I could say that we showed up on teen night accidentally, but that would be a lie. The truth is, we thought thirteen year olds would be less intimidating and less likely to carry switchblades and fire-arms. We wanted a relatively tame environment for our entry into the lusty, glamorous nightclub world, and we figured middle schoolers and free soda would do the trick. Also, we knew we wouldn't have to compete with other women our age. I don't know any thirteen-year-olds who have a rack like Christa. But, alas, our plan failed due to the fact that Aquarius has no interest in catering to pedophiles. Now the stakes have been raised. Since we still feel that we must go, we are forcing ourselves to try again on Thursday which is "eighteen and up." Now we'll get the full effect.

I don't know what I expect to find beyond those taupe colored walls. I keep picturing that brilliant episode of the Tyra Show where the always eloquent Miss Tyra went undercover as a stripper and kept saying, "I feel...Icky." Icky indeed. Because you can shower all you want, but there are some things that you can't wash away with cucumber-melon body wash and a loofa. Like shame. and Chlamydia.

Now, I have to whoreif...I mean...beautify myself. Wish me luck finding those fishnets.