Last night I went to a club.

No, not a country club.

A club where the music is loud, the crowds are abundant and sweaty (me always being the sweatiest) and everyone is super drunk.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t even understand what clubs are, much less go to them. I don’t even like leaving my Upper East Side neighborhood, and on the rare occasion I do make it downtown, it’s to pursue a buzzed-about meal of bacon, or because I fell asleep on the subway and got lost.

But last night I made the exception for a friend’s dad’s birthday party. Yes, you read that correctly. My friend’s dad, David, the coolest 60-year-old on earth, decided to celebrate his birthday by clubbing in New York City. And it just so happens that the only way you’re going to get me to go to a club is if you tell me that a 60-year-old man and all his 60-year-old friends will be at a reserved table with bottle service.

I’m not being sarcastic. That is my ideal club situation.

So I went with bells on, and we had a blast! David is cooler at age 60 than I ever was or ever will be at any point in my life. And his wife doesn’t look a day over 35. (They also happen to be the loveliest people ever, but I feel that is secondary to how fucking great they look). #lifegoals

So we all partied until 3am, when David decided it was time to call it a night, and the rest of us didn’t really see a point in being there without him.

At 4am I went to bed thinking to myself, “Huh, look at me! I totally CAN do this club thing!” and I gave myself a soft little pat on the back as I drifted into a self-satisfied slumber.

At 5am I projectile vomited. EVERYWHERE.

In the bed. Across my nightstand. Onto the wall. All over my iPhone, alarm clock, and various electrical cords. Then again, at 6am, in the toilet.

David woke up this morning feeling great.

(This was the best selfie we managed to take last night. #notgood)