Night life after 40

Middle Age does something funny to the mind and the body. Intricate brain circuitry that once enabled a body in its prime to withstand late nights, immoderate alcohol intake and blaring music commits high treason against itself and gets reconfigured with age. After the 40th birthday, when exposed to the very same stimuli, the middle-aged body exhibits symptoms of jet-lag if it stays up past 10 p.m., incoherence and/or crippling headaches after two alcoholic units, and an acute intolerance for sound levels slightly above the conversational range – anything beyond this is decoded by the middle-aged brain as plain and simple "noise."

A visit to a dance club was therefore absolutely out of the equation when I recently went to dinner with my fellow fortysomethings. We were walking around the general area of The Fort, looking to have an après dinner drink, when we found ourselves flush in front of the pearly gates of Embassy dance club. Two lines of hopefuls snaked along the pavement – young adults silently making deals with their maker to be let in by the "door bitch" (yes, that’s what the big, blonde woman holding the velvet cordon is officially called). Much like St. Peter, she is Embassy’s keeper of the keys, custodian of the gates, and final arbiter of salvation.

One of us broached the idea of an extreme adventure, and in middle-age language that would mean standing patiently in line, like sheep to the slaughter, along with partyphiles less than half our age. This, plus the excellent odds of outright rejection at the door was not my idea of a fun evening; these days, it’s more along the lines of taking in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy, salivating over McDreamy, in the comfort of my own bed. I wasn’t going to give the "door bitch" the satisfaction of telling me "sorry, too old" or "sorry, your clothes are way uncool," because that is something my twentysomething-year-old children tell me all the time. My self-esteem was not likely to ever recover from such a public pronouncement.

But call it serendipity. Manna from the Gods came to us by way of an apparition in white: Tim Yap (if you don’t know of Tim Yap, you are way more uncool than me, if that is at all possible) who was on his way in. He was brilliantly put together in a perfectly-fitted white blazer and a pair of sharp, avant-garde white spectacles. With his unique brand of graciousness, he whisked us past the door bitch (ha, ha!); past several TNT wrestler-like bouncers in snug black T-shirts, three sizes too small; through the lady hand stampers in the vestibule; up a flight of stairs; and into the Mecca of Manila’s nocturnal creatures. This, here, was my VIP moment; allow me to milk it for a while.

Tim’s graciousness is not of the sort you find in others, straight out of the dog and pony shows of insincere social networkers. His is an effortless and real generosity of self, a consistent gentleness of manner and a subtle sophistication that could only have come from many years of growing up in a respectable home and family. In other words, it cannot have been merely a persona adopted for specific purposes; it is something that can only be nurtured through time.

The interiors of the club are cutting-edge in design. The physical aspect: set-up, floors and all visible surfaces are very clean. The service staff and security personnel are refreshingly very well-mannered. The fire exits are clearly marked and the heavy-duty exhaust systems – gargantuan, black, box-like contraptions – inconspicuously mounted overhead kept the air clear of eye-assaulting cigarette smoke.

After the guided tour of the extensive facility, our labored breathing must have given the staff the idea of finding us a nice spot on which we could recline and find our bearings in that youth-infested universe, where we were clearly the aliens.

To ease our agitation, Tim proceeded to initiate us with his take on Manila society’s no-gap generation, where the young and the old come together to unwind and enjoy. He explained the "door bitch" concept, whose purpose it is to weed out undesirables: the intoxicated, the druggies, the war-freaks, the under-dressed, the impertinent, and the under-aged, to ensure undisturbed fun for those who are truly there to have a good time. This assuaged our fear of possible eruptions of violence or unbecoming behavior from such characters; the result of middle-aged paranoia begotten from watching too many Hollywood thrillers. He explained further that brawlers are consequently banned future entry. He said in jest, "We’re never matapobre here, we’re mata-pangit," meaning that those who don’t pay attention to how they present themselves, deportment-wise and grooming-wise, shouldn’t bother to try to cross the velvet ropes. This thankfully has taught our youngsters to leave their flip-flops, their week-old, unwashed jeans with crotches hanging down to their knees and their baggy shirts, which look like they were picked out of Shaquille O’Neal’s closet, at home.

Later into the night, which is the official witching hour of the younger generation, groups of familiar youngsters – teenage children of our friends – came out of the woodwork and paid their respects to us. It was probably to express surprise at our presence if not to confirm that it was truly us, the oldies of their lives, who had encroached on their territory. "Good evening Tita, Tito," was heard many times over. Tim and his management staff shepherded them throughout the night, maintaining a dignified distance but a close eye for their safety. That gave me an entirely new picture of Embassy and I should hope that my children opt to go there on their nights out so I am not robbed of my worry-free, eight hours of nightly zzz’s.

Ordering a drink was tricky. I wasn’t going to be caught dead whipping out my reading glasses to make sense of the drink list. It certainly didn’t help that the house lights were dim and that the strobes cast irregular flashes and shadows. After much squinting and unsquinting, distancing and pulling the menu closer, I gave up the chance to order something exotic-sounding to come across as an urban sophisticate, so I settled for a glass of wine. Blah!

I shifted my efforts to a sport I have long given up: scoping out good-looking men. That, too, was tricky because I was as good as blind. But my friend told me to be thankful because I could then delude myself into believing that the entire male population in the room was darn good-looking. "Bask in the thought!" she said.

Dance floors serve no real purpose anymore, I learned that night. People just break into dance as they please: alone or partnered; in the middle of the room or in some obscure corner. Fashion has been bent and twisted into alternative creative directions where luxury brands give way to vintage, deconstructed, distressed and previously owned clothing. Social class systems seem less pronounced in venues like this, fostering a global attitude among music lovers converged even for just that night. The youth has truly simplified life for themselves. Never mind if they sometimes seem strange – grooving seriously with every muscle in their body and bathing in sweat while positioned amongst a group of disinterested friends who are in the thick of conversation and unmindful of their terpsichorean endeavors. Never mind if their articles of clothing may not qualify as tops or bottoms but as scraps of fabric artfully draped to make fashion statements, which oldies like us cannot relate to. Never mind if they talk about bands, films and concepts with names that sound like rare medial diseases.

Their social constraints are more relaxed. Individual tastes and freedoms are indulged and people mind their own business. The parameters of acceptable and unacceptable, conformist and non-conformist, weird and cutting-edge have been blurred to fight alienation and accommodate self-expression. How liberating!

Halfway through my drink, I felt less hostile toward the loud music. I started tolerating the scenery of young people hard at work on the singular mission of having fun. Oh, all right, I was enjoying!