Am I Getting Too Old To Go ‘Out, Out’?

My best mate had just melted her way down a shop front window and landed on the pavement in defeat. Heels still on, feet no longer willing to cooperate. 'Well, that's a first’, I told the two hazzily attractive guys who had also been swiftly ushered out of the closing nightclub. 'She alright?’, one of them half heartedly mumbled to me between drags of a wonky Marlboro Gold. We had been invited to go with them to another bar around the corner which they promised was better, cheaper and open until 6am. It was now 3:25 am. 'Yeah, of course. She's a trooper’, I returned as I gave her an encouraging nudge in the arm with my shoe.

I crouched into a deep squat to join her down on the floor. 'You alright mate?’, I asked assertively, willing her to open her eyes. I was desperately trying to appear more sober than I was, to counteract just how fucked up my now immobile best friend was and get us on our way to the next place. 'What do you want to do’, I said, fully aware that the right thing to do would be to take her home and put her to bed, but also selfishly desperate for her approval to keep the night going. 'Whaverrwhado’, she dribbled. 'Whatever you want to do’.

My conscience got the better of me and I sighed, reluctantly informing our new male friends that we sadly would not be accompanying them for more drinks, and ordered an Uber home.

'What happened to us?', I thought. Because it wasn't too long ago that this very inebriated BFF and I were up, drinking gin on my doorstep as the birds chirped and the sun came up after arriving home from night of actual 'clubbing'. The futile negotiating with bouncers to skip queues. The committed and over-enthusiastic dancing with strangers for hours on end. The incessant shot taking, just because there was a bar available for use. The being 'out, out' and refusing to go in. That was our thing and we were great at it. Once.

The next morning was usual hangover protocol. Wake up, check phone, delete incriminating photographs, and assemble in the kitchen for debriefing. 'I'm so sorry we came home', my mate said to me. 'I can't believe we didn't go to the next place'. I told her that it was, of course, absolutely fine and that maybe we just can't do it like we used to. A bold statement to make at the not-so-ripe age of 25, but having not set foot in a 'club' since, I'm starting to think that I was right. I'm done.

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Last year a study decided that 37 was the age at which it became socially 'tragic'to be seen out in da clubs. 31 was the age you start to prefer to stay in, they said. But what level on the 'willingness and ability to go out, out' scale are we meant to hit in our mid-twenties? I for one have mixed feelings about my retirement from my life of sticky shoes, overpriced nightclub entry and drunkenly pondering life's great mysteries (to continue drinking, or not to continue drinking) while perched on the side of the road at 3 o'clock in the morning.

We belong to a generation who have watched hundreds of our once beloved nightclubs close up and down the country. Back in 2016, the Office For National Statistics even removed the price of nightclub entry from their list of common services that they use to calculate inflation because it wasn't as significant a contributor anymore. There's no doubt that we're not going as frequently as we used to - but the last few times I *did *go out, out, I was unlikely to spot anyone who looked old enough to know *Insomnia *by Faithless as anything other than an obscure throwback. Maybe we're all cutting the club habit earlier?

Perhaps I'm an anomaly among the millennials who would much rather round out a nice Saturday night with Netflix and Chill instead of getting sweaty to bass-heavy dance tracks. Don't get me wrong, I adore the night in. I excel at it, but I've never considered it the secretly preferred consolation prize for not going out, out. And I'm jealous of the kids who still do it.

The image of my hopelessly battered BFF slumped on the side of the road, the one who for so long represented those late night, out, out, booze-fueled antics, is one that has stuck with me. If I'd found her like that years ago, I would've probably picked her up, dragged her into the next bar and given her a water to chase with another vodka mixer (not advisable). But now, in my mid-twenties I feel like I've moved on from that relentless, chaotic partying. It makes sense - responsibilities, finance, and simply being more aware of my inability to cope with hangovers anymore are all good reasons to stop. But that's not to say I don't, and won't desperately miss it. I'm not yet resigned to dinner parties, nights in alone and quiet evenings over bottles of 'the good wine' - and maybe I never will be. But going out feels like it will be different from now on. As for 'out, out'? Well, ask my mate who's lopsided face pressed against the front of a closed off-license in the early hours of the morning was the screensaver on my phone for a few weeks. Because I don't think she's made it back to the club yet either.

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This article originally appeared on The Debrief.