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party season

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

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It is no secret, I used to be an undeniable party girl.  Paris is a great place for it. I found myself living in the city months after escaping the sleepy tiny town I studied in for 3 years. So it was a natural progression for me to turn to partying.  I swapped french classes for cocktails. Traded in baguettes for bars where everyone knew me. There were the disco friends ; hazy faces I barely knew except at night. Bartenders who had my drink choice remembered by heart. Black slinky ensembles and bras I only wore after dark. Hamstrings aching from dancing and heels abandoned on my doorstep at 3 am. There was crossing Pont Neuf on the way home to see the Eiffel glitter and feeling a rush of nothing but lucky.  Or that enormous neon P that hung on the back wall of the basement dance floor of my favourite bar; Le Pompon, that  glowing letter looking down on us as we did whatever the hell we pleased. There were smoky eyes laced in heavy mascara and blurry stories to remember sipping coffee the next morning. Haleigh would sometimes call me at midnight on a Monday, we’d sneak out… already bored of the week ahead and searching for thrills with a naive enthusiasm.  Because you see to party correctly, to do it big in the right way – it requires an infinite amount of enthusiasm. You have to forget  tomorrow’s impending hangover. Ignore that the night will probably be nothing but a repeat of the one before. Neglect your sore feet from heels too high.  Brush off the extortionate price of one mediocre glass of wine. You have to abandon a great deal to commit. And I did just that, I was dedicated – like everything else in my life, I went at it wholeheartedly. Now, I did waste a lot of time, but I wouldn’t change that time in my life for anything. I am older now, with goals bigger than a dance floor and an obsession with health that keeps me too busy for bars. I will never forget those nights, those silly parties and how special it all felt. It was an era in my life I consider a luxury, one I indulge in very rarely now. I skipped birthday cocktails this year to celebrate my day on the treadmill at the gym instead.  Friday nights typically see me tucked away in pyjamas. But today, here on the first day of December, the beginning of the festive season, I feel like celebrating. This has been my best year yet, out of the 27 I’ve had, the last 365 have absolutely awed me. I am quietly very smug. And so I feel like slipping out after dark. I feel like drinking the too-expensive cocktails. I want  sequins and  lace on little black dresses and jokes shared at bars with men I’ll never see again.  I want to see 2015 off in the wild way it deserves before it slips away.  I want to celebrate. 


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