I had a floor-shaking New Year's Eve, finally, after two years in a row that went bust. Last year, I was by myself and fed up and went home early. The year before that, I had lost my voice and literally left HiFi at like 12:30 a.m.
This year, as usual, we didn't make a plan til the very last minute. We were invited to George's bar but we weren't too into the idea of being around a bunch of people we know, and spending over $100 on Stoli O and sodas. After considering innumerable options and calling all our favorite bars, we settled on Flatiron Lounge, which was charging $100pp for four hours open bar of delicious, expensive, finely mixed cocktails with exotic ingredients. Seemed like a good deal since those things are normally like $14 apiece.
What we didn't anticipate was that the crowd - which was surprisingly light - would consist of couples and single girls looking for guys. In retrospect it makes sense: it's a lovely Art Deco bar with nice music and fruity drinks. I don't think single dudes would think to go there unless they were dragged in a group. So Michelle and I had to satiate ourselves with just spending time together and with the adorable (and probably gay) bartender, but that was ok.
We met some crazy girls too and did talk to a couple of guys, got pecks on the cheek, etc. It was all going great til some guy looked at me in my empire-waisted dress and asked if I was pregnant. I lost it.
A woman has two worst nightmares: being asked if she's pregnant when she's just fat, and being mistaken for a man. I spent much of my childhood being forced to wear a very short haircut and being mistaken for a boy. My life can't get any lower now.
It's too bad because I actually was at my optimal attractiveness. Aside from the weight issue, which is a constant struggle, I had my hair done, eyebrows shaped, manicure/pedicure, necessary wax, makeup, everything. So, given that, I somehow managed to recover, and we stumbled out of Flatiron to head down to Marshall Stack for a last minute drink and English muffin pizzas, since I was already resolved to being fat. Matthew let us stay after hours and drink prosecco and show off our cleavage, but we left just in time to catch the last two slices of pizza at Rosario's, very much our old stomping ground, happy to revisit.
A taxi ride home in which I unzipped my tight (and apparently maternity) dress, followed by a drunken visit to Dunkin' Donuts where I ordered a chocolate kreme while holding my dress up with one hand....
You'd think my night ended there but I didn't actually go to bed until after 8 a.m., drawn to Queens in the wee hours...
I, like the rest of the world, start detox tomorrow.
Happy New Year!
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