Please pardon the cocky expression, as I was just proud of myself for having filled a glass half-full of vodka in a moving limousine. As it turns out, I'm heavy handed with the liquor when it comes to making drinks, which may explain why I've never been a bartender. And besides, I can't be responsible for things like velocity and flow and bumps in the road. I'm human. I can only do so much. But, hey, the way I saw it, moderation was irrelevant, as none of us had to drive, and the goal of the evening was to enjoy ourselves.
Which, I think it's safe to say, we did. We started at nine o'clock on Saturday night, and, as I may have mentioned before, didn't get home until 6:30 Sunday morning. During those ungodly hours, we went to Sol, headed to Duvet, and capped off the evening at Lotus.
And, when you're flanked by a ton of hot chicks, you don't much care that you always feel like a country bumpkin when you're in the city. Because, when there's that many of you, and you have oodles of bottles of booze waiting for you in the car, you really sort of become your own party.
The impression I give with this statement is probably that there were nine heavily inebriated women running around the streets of New York City. But that's wrong. Because, really, no one was. Drunk, that is. We were just all in the mood to have a good time. To shake our thangs and enjoy one another's company. Which is precisely what happened. We danced. We talked. We laughed. We looked. It was incredible.
The ride home, however, was another story entirely. Finally, the vodka and our shoes and the dancing and the walking and the laughing and the talking and silliness caught up with us. And we all passed out in the thick buttery seats of the limo's interior. It was like waking the dead when we finally hit home, each of us rolling out of our respective seats, walking like zombies to the promise of soft beds, warm sheets, space to stretch out in.
Which, really, when you think about it, is the way all of the good nights end.