As it so happens, I recently lost my virginity. My 21st birthday just occurred a few weeks ago, and I lost my legally-going-to-bars-and-nightclubs virginity. Let me tell you something: it felt amazing. (Were you expecting me to elaborate on something else?) In the past, I went to a couple low key bars where the doorman either conveniently turned a blind eye

to my terrible fake ID or Stevie Wonder moonlighted as a bouncer for the night. There’s an old show from the 1970s called “The Match Game,” where contestants received a sentence and matched a fill-in-the-blank part of a sentence to a celebrities’ answer. Every once in a while, a question was asked featuring Dumb Dora, stating that she was so dumb, leaving the audience to respond “How dumb is she?”

Well, my fake ID was so bad (This is where you come in!) In real life, I’m 5-foot-1 inch and my ID said 5-foot-7 inches. My hair color in real life is brown and my ID said red. And despite the fact I’ve perpetually looked 16 for the past five years, my ID said I was born in 1987 (you do the math). By the time I was ready to go out, I was wearing 6-inch heels and enough makeup to put a clown to shame. I was so unrecognizable I might as well have been wearing Groucho Marx’s

nose and glasses getup because it wouldn’t have made a difference. (Though if I don’t get my upper lip waxed at least once a week, I can get dangerously close to growing a eerily-similar stache).

Fortunately those days are long gone. I am now 21 years old and ready to paint the town red. Being the big girl, excuse me, w-o-m-a-n (sung to the tune of the Etta James song, of course) I am now, downtown San Diego was the first place I wanted to explore. The funny thing about downtown is even though I’m allowed into these places, I don’t know if I was mentally prepared to enter them.

First of all, the way my female counterparts were dressed made me feel as if I was wearing one of those head-to-toe bathing suits from the 1920s. Sexy, right? It’s not as if I wasn’t trying to look my best either. I was rockin’ my cutest miniskirt and sandals with the straps, but I didn’t realize the dress code happened to be clothing optional. I also didn’t realize the newest trends included glittery stilts or pushing your breasts up so far they practically hit your chin. But hey, you learn something new everyday.

I was in line with women who were not only having trouble walk- ing, but apparently having difficulty thanks to their tight garments cutting off vital circulation. Still get- ting used to the fact I am indeed

21, I nervously showed the bouncer my ID and was surprisingly let in without question. Upon entering the club, my suppressed epilepsy immediately came to fruition and I questioned whether I’d have a seizure. I mean, is it really necessary to have so many lights flashing in such a small area?

To handle the lighting situation, I immediately headed straight to the bar, because with great power (being 21) comes great responsibility (becoming an alcoholic). I was quickly reminded how expensive drinks are. With that, Plan B arose: find the nearest, semi-decent looking guy, have him buy me a drink and never talk to him again. Works like a charm.

So I found “Mr. Right Now,” talked it up a little bit, got my free drink, and the fun began.

I hit the dance floor with the confidence of a Fly Girl from “In Living Color,” but instead had moves like Elaine from “Seinfeld.” I’d like to say I have the sweet moves of a Pitbull backup dancer, but when you come from a white, suburban Jewish family, the white man’s overbite is ingrained in you at an early age. In my defense, more than half the crowd had the same dance moves as me, so it looked like I wasn’t the only one who learned to dance at a bat mitzvah.

Watching other people dance was a sight to see. Some were dancing by themselves, other couples were grinding so hard, I thought it might have been their last day on earth together. Some people acted out lyrics of the songs (i.e. pretending to take off their clothes when Nelly’s “Hot in Herre” came on) because they thought it was funny. I can tell you firsthand, it was not.

I ended up dancing all night. I was that lame-o who “ironically” did the sprinkler move solely reserved for drunk dads at their daughter’s wedding. I was the girl who knew every lyric to “Bust a Move” and busted a move or two during the song. Ultimately, I was the girl who boogie-oogie-oggied ‘till she just couldn’t boogie no more. When I say I couldn’t boo- gie no more, I don’t mean physically (it was 2 a.m, the lights were coming on and the club was closing). Although I was sad my night was ending, I was ecstatic this was the first of many nights in my new life as a 21 year old.