A tale of two cities

Last night was one of the more interesting nights of my life.  I had two parties to attend:  one here in Woodbury (or close enough) and one in Philly.

The one in Woodbury-ish consisted of people from my high school.  Apparently once a year, we’re all going to start getting together at the closest thing to a bar near town for a night of fun reminiscing of memories that I just don’t possess.  I don’t remember who was sleeping with whom.  I don’t remember you going off with him after homecoming in 1990.  If I am completely honest with you, I barely remember who the heck you are.  If you wore a cheerleader costume uniform, rest assured we didn’t get along in high school.  I had my nose to the grindstone in high school.  What that means is that I wasn’t cool enough for 99% of my high school to hang out with.  And you know what?  I’m perfectly fine with that. 

But I digress.  The Woodbury-ish gathering was pretentious in that all of the girls got dressed up to impress one another.  As soon as someone walked away, gossip and trash-talk ensued.  Basically, I was at the tracks last night circa 1993.

After that gathering, I went into Philly.  Yesterday was a friend of a friend’s birthday.  I was supposed to meet up with everyone at one of my favorite places.  I was late for the gathering, so I met them at place #2.  This place is a pretty popular hot spot in Philly.  The birthday boy is friends with the owners, so we were escorted around the lines.  The Red Sea velvet ropes were parted and up the stairs we went.  There was a VIP table involved, loaded with all kinds of drinks.  The place was packed, the music was loud.  Champagne and strawberries with a sparkler was served to commemorate the birthday.

I’ve never had the VIP treatment.  Not having to wait for a drink was very convenient.  But, if I’m honest with myself, I’m more of a dive bar/cheap beer kinda gal.  I don’t need all of the flash.  I really don’t want or need scantily clad women dancing on tables or assigned to my table.  

Maybe I’m emotionally unstable, or maybe I’m completely self-aware, but I’ll never be the girl who has fun at one of those pretentious places.  Yes, dancing was fun.  But I had to dance to not punch the people jostling me around all night.  I had to dance so that I didn’t tell those sad little girls dancing on the tables that they are not admired but objectified.

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