Eden
Pulsating music, a dark room, scantily clad girls everywhere — no, I’m not talking about Hollister. I’m talking about nightclubs.
Before arriving at Eden in Washington, I was looking forward to my first trip to a nightclub. I figured I would have the time of my life dancing with my friends, the way so many movies and television shows I had seen portrayed the experience.
I was wrong.Little did I know the media had brainwashed me into thinking clubbing was fun and being old enough to legally enter a nightclub was a rite of passage — as if my 18-year-old self would magically cross the threshold into maturity.
The night started out fair enough. After hours of primping and dressing to the nines, I had to wait outside in frigid temperatures with nothing but a cotton blazer to warm me. That was no problem. I could handle the numbness in my extremities for 45 minutes.
When we approached the front of the line, the pricey $20 entrance fee came. I can buy a lot for $20 — movies, books, a pet turtle on the Internet — but unfortunately, I put my money toward this lousy entrance fee, plus another $4 for coat check. Even that I could stand, though I felt like I had been ripped off.
Finally, I entered the actual nightclub — a dimly lit room full of smelly, sweaty 20-somethings. The smell of body odor mixed with alcohol permeated the entire place. I could feel the beats of Usher’s 2004 hit “Yeah!” threatening to collapse the walls. It didn’t help that Eden’s patrons kept stumbling into me in their weak attempts to dance while intoxicated — while spilling their overpriced drinks, too. I soon realized any possibility of having fun in this slop-fest walked out the door the minute I paid the entrance fee.
However, the worst part was not the smell, the people or the club itself — it was the dancing. I walked in knowing there would be some grinding, some twerking. My senior prom prepared me for those eye-stingers. But grinding and twerking at the college level was another story. I understand that nightclubs are atmospheres where dancing like a fool is acceptable, but the sights I saw were beyond words. Simply put, the images of pit stains, thongs and grinding trios have been permanently burned into my brain. Before I could witness any more foul behavior and gyrations, I hailed a taxi and went as eastward from Eden as I could. I had stayed — rather, survived — for less than two hours.
Maybe I had a bad experience at Eden. Maybe other nightclubs are more fun. Either way, I know one thing for sure: I will not be frequenting nightclubs anytime soon.
