Every so often, you realise some semi-important stuff. Maybe that your friends are actually terrible and you’re prepared go to great lengths to never see them again (GOODBYE, JESSICA). Perhaps that you want to move to New Zealand and work as a vet (HELLO, FLUFFY).
For me, a recent realisation was that I don’t really like going out. I don’t mean physically leaving the house (although that sometimes takes a lot of effort, too) – I mean GOING OUT! DRINKING! GETTING DRESSED UP! HITTING THE TOWN! THEN PAINTING IT RED! and everything that goes with all that. Why, you ask? Allow me to explain…
Home is comfier, always
Whenever I am due to go on a night out with people from my home town, I’ll go back to my mum’s house for the evening. At approximately 9pm I’ll head downstairs, ready to go, and I’ll usually spot my mum sitting in the living room. She’ll be looking all snug, sitting with a blanket and a share bag of Wispa Bites that she’s not really planning to share. For some unknown reason she’s often about to watch a film from the Shrek saga, which seems to be repeated regularly on Freeview on a Saturday night. I look at her slippers and sit down on the sofa next to her until I hear a car toot outside and then it dawns on me: I JUST WANT TO SIT HERE AND ENJOY SHREK 3 IN MY GOD DAMN PYJAMAS.
It costs a hell of a lot
Can I share a lil something with you? I would spend £40 on a meal without blinking. MAYBE EVEN £45! But waking up on a Sunday morning knowing I’ve spent £40 on drinks and a taxi ride to and from a place I didn’t really want to go to makes me internally tearful. Think of everything else that could have been spent on – months of Netflix! Two trips to Nando’s! Several additions to my already-creepy Disney Tsum Tsum collection! The mind boggles and the wallet weeps.
You can’t hear anything AT ALL
I find that the people you tend to go on nights out with are the people you haven’t seen for a while – you all keep the date free and coo about how nice it will be to have a catch-up. And it would have been. But when the evening rolls around, the ten minutes you spend in the taxi is the only time you actually get to talk, because even the bloody Slug and Lettuce is blasting music like you’re all 85 and NOBODY CAN HEAR WHAT ANYONE ELSE IS SAYING. It’s hard to want to return to a club or bar when all you did last time was laugh when other people did and say “…Yeah!” a few times to show willing. “How’s the job going, Soph?” “YEAH!”
It ruins the next day
When you’re 17, it’s fine to wake up hungover. You can skip college or spend the day in bed and order an extra large Papa John’s and it doesn’t really matter too much. When you’re a bit older, things start to change. Your time’s more precious and the idea of nursing a headache until 3pm (and then struggling to move until 9pm, when you fall asleep anyway) sounds a bit grim. At 17, Sunday is just another day. At 25, it’s HALF OF THE WEEKEND. That’s something you can’t afford to waste.
You’re always cold and uncomfortable
If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being cold. Gone are the days of refusing to wear a coat (“I DON’T NEED ONE MUM, STOP TELLING ME HOW TO LIVE”) – I have evolved and that means choosing ‘warmth’ over ‘what I think boys might like to see’. But on nights out, all rules seem to go out the window and it becomes acceptable to wear a leather jacket as a coat despite it being minus 2, or to opt for sandal-heel-things and no tights when you could really do with some fleece-lined snow boots. If you try to veer away from these wardrobe choices, people say things like “Ohh, no heels?!” in a sad voice, or you see yourself and your coat tagged in Facebook photos and realise you look like Paddington Bear next to a load of Jessica Rabbits.
It always starts later than my sleep pattern would like
“So, meet at 10pm?” 10pm. Heavy breathing. 10pm? The time I would usually be in bed by. I CAN’T COPE WITH THIS SHIT. Like Hannah Horvath from Girls, I had glandular fever (or mono, if you’re a pal from across the pond) as a teen and now require at least nine hours of sleep a night. Ten if at all possible. Venturing outside at a time when I’d normally be settling down with a book and the highest setting on my electric blanket feels plain wrong.
Not sure about nights out either? Let me know!