The Night of the Pink Sweater

Rules sometimes lead to ridiculousness—like that time I visited a Williamsburg nightclub.

Yes, I was also surprised to learn that “Williamsburg nightclub” was not an oxymoron, but that wasn’t the most ridiculous thing that night.

This was back in 2005. My time at the College of William & Mary was nearing its end. Classes were over. I completed all my exams. I was free and directionless.

One night, a friend invited me to join her and couple of others at this nightclub. Clubs have never been my thing, but I figured a change of pace wouldn’t hurt.

So three young women and I journeyed to the non-colonial part of Williamsburg and arrived at the nightclub, only to encounter…a bouncer. (You can be gainfully employed in Williamsburg, Va. as a bouncer. Who knew?)

The bouncer politely informed me that my attire did not adhere to the club’s dress code. I was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Apparently, I was supposed to wear either a collared shirt or a sweater.




The girls were dressed in a Harajuku style, but they were all fine. I was the only offensive individual.

But the problem was I drove them all there, so I couldn’t just leave. I was probably going to have to run back to my apartment, find an appropriate shirt, and then run back, which seemed unnecessarily annoying. Plus, it didn’t strike me as gentlemanly to abandon a group of girls at a club, even temporarily.

Then the bouncer received an offer.

One of the girls, who was wearing a pink cardigan over a couple of other layers, asked, “Can he wear this?”

The bouncer looked at the pink sweater and laughed before responding, “Well, if he wants to.”

Naturally, I said, “Okay. I’ll wear it.”

I put the tight pink sweater on over my black T-shirt, and Shazam!—I was dressed appropriately, and no longer an embarrassment to the integrity of the nightclub.

Now fit for polite society, we ventured inside and found the dance floor, but it was missing something.


It was missing people.

The nightclub in Williamsburg had a completely empty dance floor. I seem to recall some tumbleweed blowing across, but it’s entirely possible my memory Photoshopped that in during the intervening years.

Faced with a barren dance floor, we figured there was only one thing to do. We got on it and danced.

I’m not much of dancer. However, I was already wearing a pink sweater. So...that’s one way to reduce inhibitions—an alcohol-free way, no less, at a club that sold alcoholic beverages...

Yeah, some rules are ridiculous. But we can see their ridiculousness and raise them one, or a few.