Are you a La Salle graduate?” she practically shouts in my ear. The booming house mix momentarily overwhelms my senses with a deafening wall of noise. Despite the volume, her words barely register in my mind. However, I do feel her warm breath on my cheek. It’s funny how I didn’t consider her as a girl until she asked me that question. In fact, I don’t really think of myself as a girl either. I’m 26 years old and have been out of school for nearly five years.
“No,” I finally respond, still feeling confused. To be fair, I’ve had a few shots of Jäger and several vodka tonics. “What school do you go to?”
“I don’t. I’m 26,” I reply. Her disbelief is palpable, as is the surprise on her friend’s face. Is it really so unimaginable for a 26-year-old woman to spend a Saturday night in a fancy Poblacion club? They’re both 21, which doesn’t seem like much of a difference, but I can’t help but fixate on the five-year gap between us. It feels like a chasm separating me from the vibrant energy of my college days. The woman who proudly walked out of university with a diploma is not the same person now, slouched in her seat, nursing a highball glass and desperately needing a trip to the bathroom.
It’s my old college roommate’s 25th birthday, one of my closest friends. She stumbled into one of two mysterious doors after a guy came out of it. Neither door reveals any signs of the man or the woman who went through them. People in their twenties have been entering and exiting both doors indiscriminately all night. “You could pass for 20,” the 21-year-olds tell me with empathy. I pour myself a glass of water under the neon lights and escort the birthday girl back to our table. The rest of our group jokingly wonders if she’s already found herself a “booking.” Fair enough, considering how long we waited in line. By now, she could have started a family. We raise our glasses to our unglamorous return, but only the Lord knows how many drinks we’ve had in the past few hours. I order another vodka tonic. Later, I’ll regret it while huddled in the cold, damp embrace of my shower, feeling like an old woman wallowing in regret. But for now, all I can think about is how out of touch I am with the clubbing scene. Bottles of alcohol are ridiculously overpriced, and the music is so loud that conversations turn into shouting matches (and potential super-spreader events). The darkness renders smartphones useless for anything other than basic photography. Who knows if that photo the hostess just took of us actually turned out well? We’re too drunk to care.
It’s well past midnight, and the club keeps filling up with more drunken partygoers. The dance floor, stretching from the DJ booth to the line for the restrooms, is teeming with yuppies and the occasional middle-aged man who seems out of place. Up on the mezzanine, the wealthy revelers dance with a smug glance down at the crowd below. My friends and I join the commoners in the frenzy. Multicolored lights flash like signals for chaos. If you drink enough, even the inexperienced guy tinkering with his DJ setup can transport you to Berghain. With sufficient alcohol in your system, even uncoordinated jumping and flailing limbs can pass for dancing. Who cares? As I bounce up and down on the dance floor with my friend’s arm around me, I don’t feel the strain in my knees or the ache in my lower back. The only thing I feel is that 26 is the perfect age. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, surrounded by the perfect people. Who knew a club could be the antidote to a quarter-life crisis? Maybe it’s just the alcohol, but even in my drunken stupor, I can’t silence the nagging thoughts of an “aging” woman. Still, I’m foolish enough to think that taking flash photos of the dance floor is a good idea. Later, when I stumble out of the shower and into bed to sleep off the alcohol, I’ll glance at the terrible pictures I took. I’ll feel the tender spot on my head, where it seems a chunk of my brain has gone missing. I’ll acknowledge that, despite my vows never to repeat such behavior, I’m still foolish enough to end up drunkenly sleeping in the shower. Bad habits turn us all into liars. But if there’s one thing they teach us, it’s that youth is not as fleeting as we imagine. Being young is more than just the energy coursing through our lubricated kneecaps, although that plays a part too. The promise of youth has no expiration date. And even if it did, 26 is certainly not it.
Some of us begin to feel our energy waning and make our way back to the table that some Germans have claimed as theirs. They were likely drawn here by the empty bottle of Jäger. Our group welcomes them with the typical Filipino hospitality, even if it means screaming over the blaring music. The crash that I, a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, have been dreading fills me with nausea. One of the German guys is flirting with the birthday girl. Even in her drunken state, she shines bright. I consider offering them a slice of the half-eaten birthday cake but find myself unable to speak. Another German guy says something to me, but I miss it amidst the noise. “What?” I shout. Though I can barely hear him, I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. “I asked if you’re having fun.” And I tell him, “Yeah.” I turn back to the birthday girl. I am having fun. After all, it’s a f—ing birthday.
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