Just Another Fist Pumping Friday Night

Have you ever had a moment in your life when you are in a certain situation that causes you to have a moment of absolute, total clarity? Like you needed that very situation to show you whatever it is you needed to realize? I had such a moment in the wee hours of Saturday morning at a place I should never have stepped foot in on a night that I didn't plan on being out. I'm getting a little ahead of myself, though, so let me back up and tell you how the debacle that was Friday night came to be.

The weekend started out innocently enough. School went by without a hitch and we had a great (but sad) time celebrating Jenny's last day as our intern. My initial plan for the evening had been to hit up the Orland Mall and Meijer with Becky and spend the rest of the evening playing Mario or watching a movie while John went out with his friends. Halfway through the work day, I received an email from John telling me that his friends were making the hike to Indiana for the evening (which is UNHEARD of by anyone who lives in Illinois. Go out in INDIANA? They'd rather sit at home playing Backgammon and watching home improvement shows than make the drive over to our neck of the woods on a Friday night) and wanted to know if I would come. Since it was going to be Jenny's last night to hang out, I mentioned the possibility to her and she thought that it was a great idea. At the end of the work day I gave Jenny a big hug, thanked her for being the best intern on the face of the planet, and told her that I would call her later when plans shaped up.

After school, Becky dropped by my house, picked me up, and we headed out to Orland to pick up some odds and ends at the mall. I have to tell you that I love Orland Square Mall. Just driving out to Orland makes me feel like I have been upgraded on the pay scale of life just a little. When I walk through the doors of that mall, the light airy feeling makes me feel like I have more money than I do because I am surrounded by beautiful stay-at-home wives in their Coach sunglasses and pastel capris, pushing expensive strollers full of chubby cheeked beautiful children. It is an exhilarating feeling which on this day was further perpetuated by the tunes that accompanied our drive. Becky recently scored a brand new ride in the form of a Ford Focus with a sync system which also comes with satellite radio. She has stumbled upon an all 90s all the time station and in the course of our car ride we heard the Spice Girls, The Proclaimers, Color Me Badd, and NKOTB. We tossed around the idea of starting a band and settled on "The Flannel-Assed Bitches" as a band name. We decided that we would wear khaki shorts, t-shirts, Timberland boots with slouchy socks, and tie flannel shirts around our waists as part of our band "look." Our band will play all 90s music and specialize in 90s tunes sung by women and old school rap so that John can be a special guest. Look for us in a dumpy bar near you.

Once we arrived in Orland, we swung through all the places we had coupons. First up was Victoria's Secret for free panties. Now, I can't complain about VS because they send me cards for free underwear with no purchase necessary which is wonderful; it is probably the way I have acquired 99% of my undies in the past 5 years. The thing that ticks me off is that when I walk into the store, show a salesperson my card, and ask "which underwear qualifies?" she points me in the direction of a huge display and says "Anything on that table with the mannequins." I rush over, pick up a pair of very cute cotton underwear with polka dots and a frilly waistband and proceed to wait in the freakishly long line to check out behind a really annoying group of 16 year olds who are apparently buying lingerie. WHERE ARE THEIR MOTHERS? I can only imagine how that conversation would go.

Orland Park Teen Girl: "Hey mom, I need to go to Victoria's Secret. Can you drive me to the mall?"

Orland Park Mom: "Why of course, dear, but why do you need to go to Victoria's Secret?"

Orland Park Teen Girl: "Mo-om. If you have to be so nosy, Brad and I are totally going to do it for the second time tomorrow night and I need to find something that is JUST RIGHT."

Orland Park Mom: (Martini in hand) "Well, in that case, here is $100. Brad's just the type of boy you should marry and you don't want to disappoint him."

Or something like that. As I finally approach the register and give the salesperson my underwear and my card, she looks at me in disgust (probably partly because I am a cheapskate and am not buying anything else) and says "You can't get THESE underwear. You have to get something with Victoria's Secret on the waistband." Which makes me want to scream, "Can all of you salespeople get on the right page or send the one that I talked to in the front of the store back to the Underwear Selling Remedial Program because she did NOT mention that VERY VALUABLE PIECE OF INFORMATION!" By the time I picked out another pair (black and white stripes with a small silver band if you must know) I had wasted more time in that God forsaken store than I care to mention. After that, the shopping trip seemed to run by without a hitch and Becky and I headed back to Highland to finish up, grab dinner, and get groceries. By the time Becky was returning me to my house, it was already 9:00. This is when I should have said, "You know what? It's late and I'm tired. I should just stay home tonight." But noooooo, the 21 year old still living deep within me said that the "Night is still young and you can suck it up to go have some fun." Oh boy.

I called Jenny and asked her to be at my house at 10:30 so we could meet up with the guys. In the mean time, I tried contacting John to see just where they had landed by this point in the night. To my dismay, they had driven themselves all the way out to the Tilted Kilt in Hobart which is a good twenty minutes away. Against my better judgement, Jenny and I hopped in the car and made our way out to the Irish Hooters. For those of you who haven't been there, it is basically a Bennigan's (seriously, this particular one was a Bennigan's 6 months ago) with half-naked waitresses. They wear short little plaid skirts, white shirts tied up underneath their boobs Baby One More Time style, and knee socks. Every time the waitress came to our table, she hovered over me and if I looked up I got an eye full of straight boobs. It is a neat concept if you are anyone with a penis which is the demographic I am sure they had in mind when designing this place. After driving all the way out there, we stayed for one drink when John had the idea to go to Woodhollow all the way back in Highland. And, if you are still reading and care, with this suggestion we are getting closer to my moment of clarity.

If you live in Northwest Indiana, you probably know what Woodhollow is. When I moved here in 2005, it was a club located in the upstairs section of the Omni athletic complex. You know, so that as soon as you are done working out you can go have a beer and pick up a guy. This may sound weird, but I believe that many of the meatheads who frequented that joint did just that. Woodhollow was the local cure to the need for hot sweaty club action. Nights there start out innocently enough- drink specials, a DJ spinning the latest music, various old Serbian guys giving you nods as they stroll by for more Redbull/Vodkas. Then, the witching hour strikes and away goes the calm pop music and out comes the full on rave complete with epilepsy-inducing strobe lights, blowhorns, and a lot of fist-pumping. When I was 25, this place was AWESOME. It was full of beautiful people (as beautiful as it gets in NWI) and full of potential hookups. You always ran the hazard of being physically molested on the dance floor but, hey, it comes with the territory. I have many good memories from Woodhollow which range from Ten Shot Tuesday which will go down in history as the best Tuesday night EVER spent in a bar to Rachel's twenty-something birthday party. The more I grew older, the less I was interested in going to this sweaty mess of a place until me and my group of friends stopped going altogether. Shortly after, we received word that the whole joint was moving to a Mexican restaurant down the street and they were dubbing it "Woodhollow After Dark." It was barely a spark on my radar because I had closed that chapter in my life.

My only encounter with Woodhollow until this fateful Saturday morning was after the MHS holiday party two years ago. We had spent the evening eating, drinking, and playing Pictionary and the inevitable time came when our time on the banquet hall rexpired and we had to ask ourselves the obvious question; go home or stay out? Stay out won, and a group of about 10 of us headed to Woodhollow. We all went over in various cars and I just happened to go over with an older co-worker. As we were walking in the door, we happened to be about 10 paces behind a younger "lady" (for lack of a better term, unless you want to tack "of the night" to the back end of it) who was wearing an impossibly short skirt and tube top. In January. My co-worker proceeded to ask me how we got into the building and when I replied "I'm not sure" she said (very loudly) "Ok, we'll just follow that slut. She seems like she knows where she's going." She's very tactful. When we walked through the door, we were greeted by bouncers, girls in tight skirts, and a full on dance party. Needless to say, our group did not last there very long.

This brings us to 1 am Friday night when myself, my husband, Jenny, Josh, and Dave walked into Woodhollow. We went straight to the bar for drinks and then headed into the outrageous dance party that was happening within. This is when that moment of clarity hit. Here I was, sausaging my way onto the dance floor where I found myself sandwiched between a guy in a sideways baseball cap who looked about 19 fist pumping like he was auditioning for Jersey Shore and a girl with a shirt cut so low, that I was sure her boobs were going to pop out at any time. That is if the guy dancing behind her and groping her chest didn't pull them out for all of us to inspect first. The message from my epiphany? You are too friggin' old to be here. Now, I know that there were people at that club older than me. My husband for one. All the creepy 50 somethings on the side of the dance floor creepily sipping drinks and creepily staring at all the half-naked girls grinding on each other being some others. As I stood in line for the bathroom, I had to listen to half-brained conversations which centered around flavored condoms and a lot of "Oh my Go-ods" thrown in. Now I am no intellectual and I would rather talk about TV or movies more than politics or religion any day, but I believe that I lost more brain cells in line for that bathroom than I did during my entire college experience. As I made my way back to my little group, I vowed never to set foot in that place again unless I was going before 8:00 and had a huge craving for fajitas.

The moral of this post? Never go to Woodhollow unless you are ready to be shoved, prodded, and poked by random guys the entire time you are there. If you do go, do not leave your drink unattended for many obvious reasons (roofies, a good place for guys to pee, etc). And, if you must go, wear a helmet...the fist pumping is a little out of control after 11:00.