You wonder, seriously, how you ever pulled an all nighter. You used to stagger out of the club as the sun was rising. Sometimes, you'd even head straight into work and survive an entire day's shift afterwards. Whaaaat? You can barely get through a sober weekday evening without feeling an overwhelming need to nap. And long gone are the days when alcohol would invigorate you...Oh no. It now leaves you curled up in a ball of crippling weariness come 9pm.
You're insecure about your dance moves. You once possessed dazzling confidence that you looked like Beyonce as you shook your booooootaaay and threw serious shapes in the middle of the dancefloor. These days, you just know that you looked a choreographic cataclysm with your flailing arms and your awkward thrusts and your expression of subtle grimace as you tried to join 'shorty' and get 'low, low, low.' You have made yourself a promise that you shall never again recreate this horror. Instead, should you find yourself confronted with a dancefloor, you shall bop awkwardly on the outskirts and pray that nobody notices you.
You actually enjoy the alcohol you do drink these days. Drinking blue alcohol that tasted of bleach and disappointment once seemed a fair trade for getting 'f*cking mashed!' (Who ever brought potato into this?) Nowadays, there's an air of sophistication to your beverage choices. You drink wiiiine, darling. And gin. And whisky. And you enjoy it. You savour the taste. Somehow, without you noticing the transition, your approach to alcohol is in line with that of your parents. Oh, sweet adulthood.
You no longer suffer from 'FOMO'. Your fear of missing out meant that you just had to go out and party at every available opportunity. What if something 'AHHH-may-zin' happened and you weren't there? You were certain that staying in meant that OMG EVERYBODY IN THE WHOLE WORLD FFS was having more fun than you. You're now well aware that the only thing you're missing out on is a beer stained dress, your best friend spilling theatrical tears in the bathroom, and a hangover that will leave you bed-ridden, illiterate, sweaty, and nauseous. Cool. Sounds fun. Reeeeally bloody fun.
Halloween isn't the biggest event of your calendar anymore. Once upon a time, Halloween was THE biggest night of your year. 'It's the one night when you can dress up as a slut and get away with it!' Seriously. You actually used to say that shit. Do you know what's nicer? Not dressing up as a slut. Being seen in public wearing clothes that actually cover your vagina.
Your Facebook profile isn't being constantly updated with tagged photos. You swinging around a lamp post with laddered tights. You pouting in a toilet mirror sporting wonky fake eyelashes and smudged lipstick. You with limp, frazzled hair extensions. Oh...And you again, crying into a portion of cheesy chips. Yup. It's been a while since you've been shamed on social media. Nowadays, you only get tagged in photos of the family cat and your friends' babies.
You have PVP whenever you wear a short dress. PVP is Peeping Vagina Paranoia, by the way. It is a thing. You're not alone in your suffering; I feel you. If your dress hemline sits anywhere above your knee, you will spend your whole evening fretting about accidentally revealing your genitalia to the unsuspecting public. 'Oh my gosh, it's just soooooo short. Why didn't I wear trousers? Seriously, I look like such a tart. If I bend over, the back of my thigh is going to be TOTALLY out. My bum, my bum! Sob. Why didn't these thoughts haunt me on Halloween in 2008?'
You actually get stuff done at the weekend. A weekend is made up of TWO WHOLE DAYS. Two whole days filled with opportunity! Two whole days not filled with trying to apply those bloody false eyelashes, being dry-humped by the local BANTAAAAAsaurus Rex, and weeping over the state of your life.
You've succumbed to the fact that you can't walk in heels. 'Arrrg, I just LOVE them, look how SPARKLY they are!' is no longer a valid excuse for stumbling around town like a three-legged goat and injuring yourself. If it isn't comfortable, it isn't happening. Orthopaedic flip flips all the way.
You get giggly and a little wreckless after 2 drinks. Isn't everything just so bloody hilarious after 200ml of wine? You have no idea what you're laughing at, but HAHAHA. 'I'm crying, I'm crying...I can't breaaaathe, my stomach hurts!' On your bi-annual night out, you can be the merriest member of the bunch for no more than £4.25, and it is FANTASTIC. You might even do a little cartwheel across the lounge before you slip contently into bed. You won't drunk-text your ex though, because you've absolutely got your shit together.
'Jason Deruuuuuuuuuuuuuulo'. Who?