That perfectly good club is Club Oceano. Recently, me and two other brave women went to check it out. Notice I didn’t say girls. No, grown-up women — with husbands, kids, mortgages — going clubbing. Yeah. And it’s all my fault.

I blame the sign. I kept seeing it from the road on my way to work. “Club Oceano.” It opened seven months ago by the people who own Ocean Stars, a seafood restaurant on N.C. 55. It seemed so mysterious. A dance club by the freeway. In Apex. I became obsessed.

Before I go any further, there’s one thing you need to know.

I. Love. To dance.

Still, I struggled with the thought of actually going. I am 35. These days, I mostly dance sitting down in my car, at stoplights. For safety reasons. I’m too well-done for dance clubs. If life is a barbecue, I’m just about ready to be moved to the edge, away from the heat.

I also worried about humiliating eye-rolls from sprightly 20-year-olds, avoiding me on the dance floor, like disco road kill.

We went anyway.

Before I get into the sweaty details, I have to stress the build-up involved. I cyber-stalked Club Oceano for months. I googled the heck out of it, trying to find details I thought may give me confidence. They were sparse: a 21-and-over club, “dress to impress,” with a $5 cover charge. I had the $5. Plenty of times.

I needed reinforcements. They came in the form of my editor, Wendy, and her friend, Linda.

True to their words, the ladies arrived at my house on Saturday night, looking fierce. We sat around until 10 p.m., an “unlame” time to make our entrance, we agreed. We pulled up and paid our five bucks. I asked the charming man at the door, “How many people are in there?” He laughed. “Three.”

He meant us.

It was kind of a relief. And the place was really cute. We chatted with Trish, the friendly bartender. She seemed to get a kick out of us as we passed the first hour interviewing her, then the owner Victoria Angelis, a beautiful Washington transplant of Greek heritage. As journalists, swilling drinks and asking questions, we were in our comfort zone.

Finally we took the dance floor. Sure, only a handful of other people had shown up, but still. We felt ridiculous, reckless and cool all at the same time.

Fast forward a couple of hours, and Wendy is a fixture at the DJ Stevie B. Good’s table, requesting Madonna and Cyndi Lauper. The lovely and lanky Linda had amassed a fan club of younger men, friends of the owners who had stopped in.

And me? I was just dancing. To my delight, an older gentleman came out of nowhere and showed off some old-school James Brown moves. Supercool.

Then Victoria, a Chivas and Marlboro in hand, said she had to get her beauty rest. “Come back and bring all our friends,” she smiled. She doesn’t have a big budget for advertising and relies on word of mouth.

Linda called it a night way before Wendy and I were ready to go. She was the designated driver, and had a spin class to teach the next day. If she was 20, she may have blown it off, but she knew her students were counting on her.

That’s how we old chicks roll.