I purchased some collapsible flats to wear because of the dreadful state of my feet after my 21-run. Walking more than 5 blocks in 6-inch stilettos is really unbearable, and in fact, cruel. With my tiny black flats, I made my painless trek through the subways. About a block away from the ballroom, I put on my heels and slipped those dandy little slippers into my purse. I met Lynn, Ruby, and Jaclyn outside the club and called the guy that was my stand-in promoter for the night. My real promoter was camping all weekend at the Governor’s Ball, so he hooked me up with another promoter in his absence.
The line outside contained around 50 people, yet we got escorted directly to the front and let in. I’m not going to lie, but I definitely felt like a badass/celebrity or something. Did you just line-jump me? Yes. The perks of being a decent looking female are seriously unending. Whoever came up with the term about man-part envy was just horribly mistaken about how life actually works. It may have been a man’s world, but I definitely think the tables have turned in modern society.
We were ushered to the VIP section of the club when we arrived. This VIP section was on a second-floor balcony that had comfy sleek couches, and overlooked the rest of the bar/dance floor. The entire night we thought it was SO funny to joke about how the people down on the ground floor were the “lowly commoners.” We definitely let the fact that we were being treated like royalty get to our heads, but in all honesty, who wouldn’t?
After we were seated, two Guido-looking dudes came up and introduced themselves as our personal drink servers. They then brought us an entire bottle of Sky Vodka that was lit with a giant flaming sparkler so that everyone would know a new bottle was being popped. They brought us frosted glasses, a tub of ice, and more mixers than four college girls could ever possibly finish without a pure-sugar hangover. Our professional drink pourers got their pour on (let’s just say they made it rain) and then joined us in a toast to my first club outing in the city.
The bar had a pretty good Disk Jockey that mostly spun house or popular dub step music. We all hung our arms over the balcony and engaged with the crowd below. We also tried to scope out some cute boys, but the lights were too low and the lasers too intense to really make out any handsome faces. There were a few foreign men that kept coming up to me, but literally the only English word in their vocabulary was “beautiful,” so that was d-o-o-m-e-d from the very beginning.
Overall, the night was a success. Good dancing, great people, and who can complain about free booze? We may have a little problem though because Ruby gave her digits out to a Russian promoter that night… She woke up to several texts the next morning from him. The first read, “I like you. Want to hang out outside the club?” The next text said merely, “I think you’re beautiful.” The third text was an awkward picture of a stout dude standing shirtless by the ocean. I thoroughly enjoyed her response to those test messages: “Thank you, but I’m not sure what that picture has to do with anything.” Moral of the story—lose the beer goggles Ruby!
Always,
Alena Netia Horowitz
