Three pumpkin spice frappuccinos and one Drake concert later, I’ve made it through another week of my senior year. As I make plans to relax and recover this Friday, many other students will be doing the exact opposite at the weekender at Stanford. Even though I have never attended the weekender (not for a lack of trying), after what was a whirlwind first game day weekend, I thought better than to put myself through another one.
This past game day weekend had more issues than Vogue. For starters, the game was at 11:00 a.m. – which for a few brave souls meant waking up at the crack of dawn and calling a few beers and a bite of a bagel a “healthy breakfast.” I have the receipts (AKA snapchats) that some of my friends were even up at 5:00 a.m. All I can say is “Slay trick, or you get eliminated.” And that is exactly what happened to me – I was no longer in the running towards becoming America’s Next Top Tailgater. Even with complete intentions of going to the game, many of us ended up in our beds or on a friend’s couch by 10:00 a.m. for obvious reasons. Guilty.
After swiping a few cold slices of pizza at my friend’s place and knocking out until around 5:00 p.m., I considered myself recharged and ready to slay the night. As a preface to the rest of this story that is about to unfold, I have never been to a club.
I decided to put on my big girl pants and even ventured as far as to wear heels – something my 5’11’’ self doesn’t do too often. As the hour neared to turning in my club “V card,” I touched up my hair and makeup and followed it with two tequila shots. Our pregame was at a friend of a friend’s birthday party. Needless to say, that, combined with the provided Prestige vodka (TBT to freshman year #neveragain), made for an interesting start to the night. When the iPhone clock hit 11:00 p.m., we called Ubers for the group and headed downtown. Standing in a Disneyland-esque line was not on my agenda, so after a few sips of wine out of a Panda Express cup, half of our group decided to migrate to WeHo for the night to a gay club called Mickey’s. After a stop at a 7-Eleven to pee and a few more sips from that “sus” Panda Express cup, we were back en route.
If only I knew just how much of a calf workout I was about to commit to wearing four-inch heels and still trying to get my life to Rihanna on the dance floor. SOS (Save Our Soles). A $10.00 cover fee later, one Redbull and vodka, and a couple of terribly-mixed electronic songs later, the night was in full swing…and three hours later we were still dancing. It’s almost shameful to admit, but we shut the club down. I felt like I had just trekked through the Sahara Desert; My feet were almost numb by the time my friends and I made our way to the Ubers waiting outside.
Honestly, I would have never guessed my first club experience would be at Mickey’s of all places. Not getting hit on by jeepers creepers all night, but rather playing wingman to my best friends was priceless. The hangover that came the next morning, however, I’d like to get a full refund for.
So that brings us here: Me, still crippled by my high heel induced injuries and swearing off clubs for a while.
Samantha Johnson is a senior majoring in communication. Her blog column, Sips Tea, runs every Friday.