A girl once told me a story of her youthful years at the clubs, when she made out with a guy on the dance floor.

At 21, this seems like acceptable silly girl behavior. Now that 30 is about to smack us in the face (and leave lines), she can’t even imagine doing something like that.

We’re not 21 anymore, Toto.

Last weekend at the club, I listened as the woman outside my bathroom stall left that voicemail for someone.

“Hey girl, just calling to see if you were coming out to celebrate the big 4-0 with me. We’re at Solas, partying it up.”

Sure enough, when I entered the dance floor, I saw a mix of ages from mid-twenties to mid-forties. More than one woman had fake boobs and heavy makeup that was settling into a few lines around her eyes.

Before going out dancing, the girls and I discussed possible locations. We settled on Solas for the fun of it. It certainly has a different atmosphere from Mosquito. At one point, we discussed possibly jaunting to Chapel Hill, but we all agreed that we weren’t looking to hang out with 21-year-olds.

So instead we end up with 41-year-olds.

Kevin was out last weekend, too, and was annoyed by the noise level at Raleigh Times, where he had to scream to talk to his friends.

“We moved to a different bar,” he said. “Is that a sign I’m getting old – when I complain about how loud it is at a bar?”

Maybe. Maybe, as we age, we’ll gravitate away from Times and begin to frequent the bars we used to avoid because the crowd was “too old.”

Does that mean one day I’ll walk into Amra’s and find the married-with-children crowd appealing?

Not ready for that. Or for the 40s crowd. But I don’t want to return to the Chapel Hill collegiate scene, either.

When it comes to the bar scene, there’s no place like home (aka Landmark). But for clubs, where is home when you’re somewhere between 21 and 41?