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Anatomy of a Christmas Party
It used to be I would scour the city for the perfect outfit, spend hundreds for the stunning "do", and be on pins and needles until the night of the Christmas Party. Over the years, I worked with some great organizations; the YMCA being one of them. The parties would never dissapoint and always be the center of discussion into the spring. When I worked at the Nautilus Club as a fitness leader (the good old days before my first husband...I sound so mature, don't I?), we used to dance on the tables, form conga lines out the door, and stay up until the sunrise.
Now I am lucky if I have the energy and interest to find the right nylons for my outfit and to keep my eyes open until ten. Nice, eh? Not only has my interest in finding that perfect, sexy, and original outfit dissapated, so has my interest in staying up all night drinking and dancing. Is it the wisdom that comes with age and a lot of party experience or the beginning of the end? Am I slowly turning into George Castanza sitting on the couch in sweats; eating a huge brick of cheese?
This past weekend, for example, I was at three separate Christmas parties. The first had me doing jello shots (albeit in moderation) in the garage of a woman I didn't know, the second was tastefully executed complete with shrimp and olive skewers, and the third included a live band so loud my ear drums have a heart beat now. You know the band? They are all about 65 and reliving their youthful days of "rock n roll" playing the oldies? Songs like "Old Time Rock n Roll" and "Good Golly Miss Molly"? From the women in tight dresses showing off cleavage so big you could lose your pen to the guys in the back yelling and screaming as they suck back one shooter after the other...I was gone soon after arrival (leaving my manfriend in the back with his manfriends and all those teeny tiny drinks).
Yup. I think I'm done with the Christmas parties. All I can focus on when I'm there is how long I have to sit in this body tube before I can explode out of it and slip on the sweat pants. There's nothing better than a pepperoni pizza, bottle of red wine, good movie, fuzzy comforter, and cuddly manfriend to make it a great Christmas.
Have a good one.
K
Now I am lucky if I have the energy and interest to find the right nylons for my outfit and to keep my eyes open until ten. Nice, eh? Not only has my interest in finding that perfect, sexy, and original outfit dissapated, so has my interest in staying up all night drinking and dancing. Is it the wisdom that comes with age and a lot of party experience or the beginning of the end? Am I slowly turning into George Castanza sitting on the couch in sweats; eating a huge brick of cheese?
This past weekend, for example, I was at three separate Christmas parties. The first had me doing jello shots (albeit in moderation) in the garage of a woman I didn't know, the second was tastefully executed complete with shrimp and olive skewers, and the third included a live band so loud my ear drums have a heart beat now. You know the band? They are all about 65 and reliving their youthful days of "rock n roll" playing the oldies? Songs like "Old Time Rock n Roll" and "Good Golly Miss Molly"? From the women in tight dresses showing off cleavage so big you could lose your pen to the guys in the back yelling and screaming as they suck back one shooter after the other...I was gone soon after arrival (leaving my manfriend in the back with his manfriends and all those teeny tiny drinks).
Yup. I think I'm done with the Christmas parties. All I can focus on when I'm there is how long I have to sit in this body tube before I can explode out of it and slip on the sweat pants. There's nothing better than a pepperoni pizza, bottle of red wine, good movie, fuzzy comforter, and cuddly manfriend to make it a great Christmas.
Have a good one.
K
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