When it comes to making excuses for not going on a night out, I’ve used every trick in the book. I’ve faked injuries, illnesses, babysitting gigs and dates. Unless I’m going to kill off a fictional relative, I’ve exhausted all my options.
In an effort to be more ‘true to myself‘ this year, I’ve decided to face the fact that I’ve been harbouring a deep dark secret: I just don’t like partying anymore! I would much rather spend an evening curled up on the sofa watching New Girl and making jewellery out of old buttons than tottering down Deansgate Locks in heels and a smokin’ hot outfit.
I feel as though I should be ashamed and embarrassed of my reclusive tendencies and reluctance to go out. I realise now that the only thing I should be ashamed and embarrassed about is the fact that I lie to my own friends. It’s kinda messed up. For far too long I’ve worried that if I simply say ‘no’ to a night out without a valid-sounding excuse, people will think I’m selfish, inconsiderate or lazy.
“Oh, I’d love to come, Kayley. But I’m afraid I’m going to my boyfriend’s mum’s house this weekend.” The fact I don’t have a boyfriend anymore has eliminated some of the best excuses from my arsenal. The Little Black Book of Lies that I carry around in my handbag has become virtually redundant.
So I figured I may as well quit while I’m ahead and fess up before I’m caught out. It’s time to just be honest and admit to myself and others that nights out just don’t make me happy anymore. In fact, more often than not they make me really sad.
I resent spending £50 on weak alcoholic beverages when I could drink a Jim Beam and coke at home for next-to-nothing. I hate dancing around the club like a prat and sending my mates videos of me yelling ‘Return of the Mac’ into the camera. I hate waking up next to a Gary Barlow lookalike (this actually happened to me three years ago) and being filled with a deep sense of regret because I don’t even like Gary Barlow. I hate spending an entire morning with a mouth like Jesus’ Birkenstocks and being unable to function for 24 hours or more.
The thing is… I’m a horrible horrible drunk. I’ve known this for years. Back in my university days, I’d throw up, I’d pass out, I’d get in fights with my housemates.
Once, some years ago, I decided to send a booty text to an ex-boyfriend but since I’d deleted his number before the night out to stop myself getting into this very situation, I ended up sending him the words ‘fancy some badonkadonk?’ via Words With Friends instead. It wouldn’t surprise me if I tried to spell it out on the Scrabble board before realising I could send him a DM.
Another time, while waiting in a really long queue for a club, I did the most desperate wee of my life in a doorway because I didn’t want to go to the pub around the corner and return to the back of the line. I am an awful drunk and when I drink to excess, I not only make a fool of myself, I also put myself in danger.
As these anecdotes clearly show, it is within everyone’s best interests for me not to get whamoed.
I must emphasise that my lack of enthusiasm for nights out isn’t down to me being anti-social either. I really enjoy spending time with people who matter to me. I love meeting my friends for cocktails after work. I love going on dates in Manchester’s Northern Quarter and getting a liiiittle bit tipsy. I love going to a mini party at a mate’s house and playing beer pong in the kitchen. The best thing about the above options is that I can hop in an Uber at midnight, head straight home and watch Adventure Time in bed until I peacefully drift off. Christ. I’ve made that sound like I go home to die!
At the age of 26, I feel a pressure to make the most of my twenties while I still can. I feel like I should be going to festivals and crowd surfing and popping pills, but it’s just not what I want. The only thing I’ve been popping lately is the kettle on so I can drink yet another Lemsip.
While partying might be other people’s idea of living life to the full, I have a better time when I focus on my career and blog and dreams. I want to create things that don’t involve a traffic cone, shopping trolley and fairy lights. I want to explore the world rather than a stranger’s gob on the dance floor. I want my head in the clouds rather than inside a dirty nightclub toilet bowl. I have respect for anyone who can go to a club and party all night long but in the words of Amy Poehler: “Good for her! Not for me!”