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I had an idea—a brilliant idea to reduce my stress and shake up my routine—an event to anticipate with relish. I was going out. Really—outside of my actual house to a place that doesn’t have the name of the company I work for on the door. An establishment that serves adult beverages and only lets adults inside. Or if not actual adults, people who have an ID that states they are over 21. Where nubile young women would be dancing and enjoying some frivolity.

Two of my dear friends, both slightly younger than myself, and I went to dinner Saturday night at a place that had a surprisingly good menu considering its outward appearance. We enjoyed watching the gay men gather at the bar, the transgendered folks out on a “girl’s night out,” and various other hip and trendy habitués of mid town. The laughter built to a fever pitch before we headed first to the sex toy shop on K.

We were casually perusing the product line when the young man at the counter asked if he could help. Then, as though we were his mother (hell, I was probably older than his mother), he asked, “Do you think I need braces? All my friends say I should get braces.” Like we’d know. Of course, we all had to provide an opinion. Then, we were off to the new club, “Badland,” which I kept referring to as “Batman” for some reason.

I was heartened to see that the early crowd (post 8 pm, but well before any actual partying occurs, just how I like it) was much the same age as the three of us. There were pleasant conversations occurring at various comfortably appointed seating areas and bar service was immediate. Interestingly, one of my friends knew some of the fellow geriatric club crowd from 10 years ago when she lived in another place. My other friend and I tried our best to drown out the “thump, thump, thump” of the dance music with our version of “It’s a Small World,” to no avail.

As time went on, the music increased in volume, and the conversations diminished. The crowds started to stream in, each person successively younger than the next. I decided to order a drink. But, it appeared as though I’d forgotten how. I had no idea what to order. As it would be my only drink of the evening, I wanted to make it count. The bartender rolled through various drink names which caused my brain cells to start smoldering on overload. I’d not heard of any of them. I finally opted for a Margarita, predictably less than exciting.

“Oh, look,” one of my friends said, “There are some middle-aged women!” We all eagerly craned our necks to the right. Well, nice try—it turned out to be a couple, dressed as bookends, with hair to match and a very ugly drag queen. I forgot that Lesbians usually travel in pairs. So much for sightseeing.

Later—much, much later…hey, we’re talking about 9:30 pm now, my friends and I started looking at each other. One said to the other, “We should all go to your house and play with the puppy.” Now, mind you, this is the same woman I used to stay up dancing with until sunrise only a few short years ago.

We all happily and anxiously nodded, finished our drinks, and went to play with a puppy. I was home well before 11 but was anticipating with enthusiasm my latest brilliant idea: slipping on my reading glasses, my comfie PJs, and reading a couple of chapters of my book while stretched out in my very own bed.

Middle age is when you’re sitting at home on a Saturday night and the telephone rings and you hope it isn’t for you. ~Ogden Nash