Paint the Town

Ever wondered what it’s like to go out in Hollywood as a single 30-something? Don’t… I did this for the sake of research (really) and am still somewhat confused. The expression “paint the town” doesn’t really go for Hollywood. You paint nothing. You just stand there with your brush and expectations feeling like an idiot.

In a mere moment of mental derangement and in an attempt to peel myself off the couch, socialize, mingle and tear myself away from Netflix, I decided, I must go out. I have a group of German gals to hang out with and, perhaps, when things become unbearable, at least I thought we can put it into our own cultural thoughts and opinions (mind you: we all live here now and left our country for different reasons ;) ).

I was invited to a night out at a club in Hollywood. The girls organized the meet-up and reassured me that everything was taken care of by a promoter. Drinks, entry, body-scan and judgmental looks are absolutely free of charge, you just have to wear a short dress. Well there goes my bikini-body-attempt number 32 (yes, I’ve been trying since I was born). I own exactly 4 dresses – one of them I grew out of (“grew” being the operative word… I like to see it as “I trained myself out of it”), the other one reminds me of a terrible networking event I once went to and the remaining two are Sunday-wavy-beach-dresses.

No chance of turning back now. I threw on a little black dress, held my breath for three hours and walked down Hollywood Boulevard in sit-down shoes (high heels that are mainly meant to sit and look nice in… plus, the whole longer legs thing… the dress, remember?!).

I was early. Surprised? :D

I waited in the lobby of the W Hotel, our meeting point, and spotted two familiar faces about twenty minutes later (there’s only so many times you can refresh your facebook feed to keep you busy). Honestly, I already felt like a hooker in my dress, sitting in a hotel lobby, trying not to judge those that walked by me. The girls looked stunning… as did the other teenag… I mean, 21-year-olds that entered the lobby, dressed in nothing but their underwear. I’m kidding. I’m sure they spent lots of shopping afternoons and their parents’ hard-earned money for the dresses and somebody at some point must have told them in an abandoned H&M, “you absolutely HAAAVEEE to get this “dress” “. I saw things that I don’t ever want to see again. And finally it dawned on me what I had gotten myself into: Hollywood nightlife. For 21-year-old me. 11 years too late.

The promoter lead us from the hotel to the club (strange- I always thought it was the other way around) and we got to pass by everyone else, show our ID’s (hahahahaha) and enter this dark room of terrible noise. At least there is no smoking, so the air was fairly breathable.


We, the beautiful, sexy, audience-engaging audience were draped on top of a sofa (why sit ON the sofa? Seems irrelevant) for a group photo. Which website exactly it was released on, I’m not so sure of. Drinks were passed around (I was driving, so I had juice – well, sugar water), and the club started to fill. 20-somethings everywhere. I felt old… oh God, did I feel old. Then the men entered… 40-somethings looking for a good time, the one who actually approached me was gay.

Then my friend, a 20-something, who had done this before, directed my attention to my right and explained to me”Oh, and that’s the waitress”.

– “Which one?”, I screamed over the music.

-“The one with the garter belts”.


She shot me an expectant look.

I burst out laughing. And I didn’t even need a drink for that.

Just considering the circumstances, it was too hilarious not to just enjoy the moment. 80% of the club was female. The only guys were some of the boyfriends, the bouncers, the DJ’s and the actual performance act (tonight it was supposed to be Chris Brown, but more on that later)… and not to forget, the gay guy.

The girls lead me onto the dancefloor (I really am not a big fan of rap music, but what can you do)… two Japanese girls were offended by our dancing next to them and decided to Britney-Spears-crazy-perform and shoot us dirty looks. Meanwhile, I only spotted bra-less breasts in halter tops and bare butts in too-short-skirts bouncing left and right. Do their parents know about this?

Oh boy, I need to get out more. Did we dress like that 10 years ago? Probably… same, same, but different. I felt like Jaime Lee Curtis in “Freaky Friday” when she had miraculously switched bodies with Lindsay Lohan, looks at herself in the mirror in surprise and exclaims “Oh, I’m like the Crypt Keeper”. (Forward to 2:05 in the clip).

Yep. Exactly the same.

After an hour on the dancefloor, I looked at my phone, listened to my feet, and decided, it was time to go. The crowd started to get much more dense, and I’m really not a fan of crowds. Forgot about that minor detail when I rsvp’d. Oh, and I do not care for Chris Brown. I’ll let another pair of breasts and butts take over my spot.

I excused myself from the girls, thanked them for the opportunity, but admitted, it was really not my place.

And so I took my Stuart Weitzmans, wobbled (with class) to my car parked a little way back on Hollywood Blvd., and wondered what the other 30-something singles in LA are doing right now. It’s Tuesday, so they’re probably doing what every normal 30-something would do – curling up on the couch, glass of wine, netflix or a book. Done.

I really wish I had contemplated more or made it more dramatic, but all I could think of on the way back was how much my feet hurt and how not worth it it was to go out that night. Perhaps it was. It was just reassuring to know that I’m absolutely not missing a thing if I keep on doing what I’m doing, and that you can be fabulous and attract the right kind of people doing exactly what you’re doing. And staying true to yourself. Or finding new friends. I’ll see how that goes.


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