It took a while to memorise the moves that miraculously make my arms look elongated. Now if only I could smile without pouting, while pushing my shoulder forward, the world immediately around me would be a prettier place. And this is what I mean: partying and the strains that our bodies take are much more demanding than one thinks. Partying is a science, just like eating a peanut butter sandwich following a night of too many shots (that’s my science). I’m old school when it comes to partying: I love to dance and hang out with my friends.
I also like to watch people, especially if they trip and fall, but I never take pictures when it happens, because I do that myself (trip and fall, that is). I like to have fun while feeling comfortable. And comfort isn’t chic, especially with my footwear (gladiator flats or sneakers). The high heels only make an appearance if I’m there for 60 minutes or less, otherwise I need a more grounded solution (ballerinas or flip- flops). I do that at weddings too. I mean, I want to remember the event rather than the blisters that result from sky-high heels. My other key accessory is a crossbody bag and it can’t be too big, just the right size to carry my essentials – iPhone, lip gloss, wet wipes, gum and money. The iPhone comes out to play for pre-party photos but these hardly ever enter the social media realm because they are boring.
Prom Dresses Ball Gowns Photo Gallery
It resurfaces if someone from the group has gone AWOL. And it can happen because our ideal party scene is one with an outdoors oering – day and night. There’s something very liberating about partying outdoors; the fresh air, the bright sun and the lack of other people’s odour. Being in a confined space, surrounded by four walls, feels unnatural. Just as unnatural as rubbing shoulders with sweat-dripping strangers in a club, where the tornado-like cold air is circulating or, worse, there’s none. It’s unhygienic and un-pretty for me to be in such close proximity to that party drench. Standing next to the aircon is time wasted because it’s too cold (could one be allergic to aircon?) and it upsets my hair. I don’t look like the star of a hair product commercial; my hair looks worse than Mary-Kate Olsen’s on a bad day, and that says a lot about my independent tresses.
And a party girl cannot have bad hair, they rarely do, but that’s because I believe that they don’t know how to party. When I party, I’m in no-inhibitions mode; it’s freestyle everything: dancing, singing (whether I know the lyrics or not), with a smile on my face. That alone is risky because it’s those who smile who get snapped up by sly photographers and I am easy prey. Party miles aside, it’s hard to be a (pretty) party girl without leaving some sort of disastrous memorabilia behind. I’m trailblazing so that others faced with a similar fate can hold their heads high with pride. I think the only thing I have in common with party It girls is that I don’t have to wait in line.
Now I just want to figure out why they don’t have bad pictures? Is it a stretch to think that they hire their own crew of paparazzi to snap away? That’s why I’m forever thankful for my social circle because you can’t party solo, you need someone to be there to pick up the (hair) pieces, or help with a touch of rouge. It takes a village to raise a child, but it takes a whole lot more to prep a girl (like me) to party. It takes a cool setting, serious stamina, and a serving of (bad and good) carbs. That’s why I don’t wear a cropped top or starve myself two days before a party so that my taut tummy is on display. Food equals energy and I need both, especially if I am party hopping.
Party hopping is easy if you are a socialite. Sashaying from one It spot to another is done with a little help from a fancy town car (forget a taxi app, that’s so 2014) and a beauty team to tap away the shine and up the gloss factor without doing much. A spritz of perfume here and there, a change of attire, just a smile for the camera and you’re ready. Especially when your publicist has called the club owner and said that you will be there in five… No velvet rope here. But thankfully I don’t have a publicist – that special someone equipped to clean up after the party faux pas has been on display – because I’m not that rowdy or raucous.
I’m a happy, dance-into-the-night girl, who dresses for comfort and not style, who smiles even when life oers grey clouds and rain, and I don’t know the lyrics to most of the music that gets played. I make them up as I go along, much like life. As for the dishevelled hair – I think I will rename it: party hair.
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