The short answer: because I don’t have anything to write about.
But I bet you’re here for the long answer. *wink* Here it goes.
I don’t care much about clubbing. Anymore. This answer either confirms to you that I’m a nerd. I am. No offence taken. Or it makes you suspect that I lead a boring life. I don’t. Read my other post; my life is exciting enough, if I may say so myself (*Jay-Z voice*). Or it makes you wonder how old I am. I’m turning 38 in a couple of weeks.
Honestly, it’s not due to an inability to turn up. The last time I turned up (last weekend!), I didn’t get home until 3:30 in the morning. Age may be a factor. I no longer have the energy of my early 20s. Plus, it takes me time to recuperate (2.5 days for my latest turn up session. I’d need an extra half day if the DJ was any good.). It’s definitely a matter of interest, or lack thereof.
I love to have people stay over at my place. The Augustes’ B&B is open for all (friends and family only)! But the worst thing a guest can ask is “Can we go clubbing?” Hubby and I will sigh in unison. We’ll avoid each other’s eyes, because the first one to make eye contact will be responsible to find a club. Ha! Finding a good hip hop/reggae club in Ottawa has always been a pain. Now that we’ve retired from that life, it’s even harder. First, we have to find that 20-something friend who’s still about that life and ask for recommendations. And that conversation is embarrassing. 20 somethings usually think we’re cool until we ask them that question. Half the time, we have no idea what club they’re referring to. Second, we need to muster the energy to actually go out.
I was born and raised in PauP. While my mother’s style of parenting differed from that of most of my friends’ parents (she allowed us to make our case if we disagreed with her, she wasn’t into physical punishment and she didn’t force traditional roles upon us), she didn’t want us to turn into bebe pwogram*. We often joke that she raised 2 pye poudre instead. My early teenage years were spent on a strict one party a month regimen. Which turned into a “go out as much as you can” phase as soon as I was of age. I never totally broke free until I moved to Canada. It takes distance to break free from a Haitian parent. (All Haitian parents reading this are now collectively side eying me.)
My last crazy night: Easter weekend in 2006. I went to a bal** in Montreal on Sunday night, stay up all night so that I could catch the first bus to Ottawa on Monday morning (6 a.m. if memory serves me right). I went straight to work from the bus station and managed to be productive. Ô jeunesse!
Don’t get me wrong, I’ll be the first to tell you that night life is part of the culture. And, sometimes, I’m really curious. Like in Colombia. I was very curious about that one club blasting reggaeton. Dancing reggaeton in Colombia (Maluma’s homeland!) would have been out of this world. Twice Hubby and I said we’d go home, change, and come back. Twice we got home, avoided each other’s eyes. Because the first one to make eye contact would have to admit, out loud, that they didn’t have the energy. We blamed it on the altitude.
I can picture Ti Val reading this and smirking. He’s probably thinking about removing me from his plans to go clubbing in Madrid. Rest assured, Little Brother, I still have a few good clubbing nights in me. As long as the DJ is good, you'll find me on the dance floor busting a move.
*Haitian Creole term that refers to a woman who goes to all the parties, bawls and the likes.
**Some would translate this to “ball”, but it would lack authenticity. Yes, a Haitian bal is a social event where people dance, but it’s not necessarily a formal affair.