Hels

When I was 16, I did a dance class at Pineapple Studios with a friend. About 10 minutes in, the rest of the group was moving from the left of the room, to the right, and I was the only person very obviously going the opposite direction. The instructor was kind but it was clear that not only was I not the next Honey — I was an active liability to everyone around me.

That might have stopped someone whose skin was a little thinner than mine. But my mamma didn’t raise no xiao long bao.

I realised this when I showed up to Destino in Ibiza last week, in athleisure wear, trainers and the very mildest swipes of mascara. Meanwhile, we were surrounded by makeup so thick you could carve your initials in it without drawing blood, outfits and accessories so coordinated they had to have come out of a magazine (arguably, not the high end kind) and so much Botox they would’ve kept the cliffside hotel afloat if it happened to collapse into the sea.

I admired the effort. And was grateful that getting older means not giving two shits what anyone thinks — of how I dress. Or how I dance.

Because the trauma of 2002 taught me nothing, except that when Solomun drops a beat, you move like your life depends on it.

And that also goes for Anyma at UNVRS. When everyone else in the room is too busy filming content to remember they’re in a C-L-U-B, it is particularly important to disregard any notion of rhythmic incompatibility. And to have the time of your life. To remember that this is your world, and everyone else is just living in it. Even the DJ.

Wrists flicking, fingers pointing, feet stomping, hair whipping, bat wings flapping. You jump like you’ve been possessed by the spirit of Mr Motivator himself, and you don’t stop unless some random stranger approaches you and says, “you are a fucking vibe”.

Yes babe, I’m 40. And I’m a fucking vibe.

#thisis40