As I sipped my sangria, stretching every last drop in efforts to delay leaving, it became painfully clear that it was inescapable. We were going. And it was final. No exit routes without looking like a total party pooper. I steadied myself on the chair, struggled to erase any expression coming thru and forged excitement. Still, I could feel my fingers slowly becoming numb, my heart racing ahead of any thought, and my feet clamping to the floor.
See, I'm a closet party hater.
Let me explain. I party fairly often, yet I don't quite like the the prospect of losing control during a drunken stupor, I fear mingling, and honest to GOD, I can give William Hung a race for his mega celebrity with my dance moves. So, after we arrived, I did the next rational thing, Dash style. I flooded my raging nerves with more than a couple of glasses of whisky and contented myself watching friends dance from my little corner. Just the usual, in my party diary. Everybody was having a whale of a time except for me. And just like that, that was IT. I decided to have fun, no matter what. Plus, the alcohol kicked in.:) I wanted in on everything.
Oh, I danced like no other night. Hung beating moves included. I was completely sloshed. Absolute anarchy staged a coup in my mind. I waved my inhibitions away. I smiled at perfect strangers for the first time. I smoked a full cigarette. I laughed so hard, my heart hurt. I blurted out so much rubbish, I have undoubtedly incriminated myself in every negative situation; past, present and future.
Still, the morning after arrived. You might be inclined to think I was ready to hang myself from a ceiling fan but the total opposite happened. I am convinced thoroughly that I will do it again. In a heartbeat. Repeat performance absolutely mandatory. Because, despite the less than desirable consequences, it was exhilarating. I was living. I could sense life. I could smell it, feel it and touch it. I can remember it. I lived for that couple of hours. It was friggin' FANTASTIC.