The Constant Was Skimpy
I'm glad you're still here.
After I've been honest with you and shown you who I really am, I mean. A lesser friend might have slowly backed toward the door by now, avoiding eye contact and rethinking some of their life choices. But you're still here and that means something.
So I suppose I can tell you what else happened last Friday after I left the Continental.
First, I needed to head home. This required a bit more attention than usual because I'm in the process of moving. Yes, actually moving. Maybe I'll tell you more about that later, when there are fewer boxes around and I've worked out where I put half my belongings.
More urgently, I had to change.
I'd spent the earlier part of the evening in skimpy green bathing attire, which was clearly no longer appropriate for where I was going. The next stop required red. And latex. And, as it turned out, also skimpy. Luckily, the transition wasn't too traumatic. The constant being skimpy. Too bad my parents didn’t make that my middle name.
Some moments and a strategically deployed amount of latex later, I walked into Sonance. Katt had already called ahead, telling me I'd love this and I thought for a moment how she’s able to get me excited by a simple text like that. You might remember me telling you before that the woman is some kind of magician when it comes to lighting. Add to that the way they manage to rebuild Sonance around an event rather than just decorate it, so I wasn't surprised that it looked amazing.
I was surprised that they managed to surprise me again. Because somehow they do that every single time. And red it was. The event was called SEX. SWEAT. SCHRANZ., which frankly sounds like somebody stealing three headings from my personal agenda.
The dancefloor was glowing red, the music was brutal and the dress code was mostly interpreted as wear whatever you like, provided most of it stays at home. This time I found myself standing on the ramp overlooking the dancefloor, which gave me an excellent view of the crowd and, perhaps more importantly, of the various acts taking place around me.
I'll refrain from naming names. Privacy concerns, obviously. These people may have to go into the office tomorrow. They have colleagues. Careers. Reputations. Possibly LinkedIn profiles featuring words like professional, strategic and results-driven.
They really don't need me providing evidence that, twelve hours earlier, they were riding airtight on a dancefloor at Sonance. I do have standards.
They're just not particularly useful ones.
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This post is not sponsored or paid for in any way. I was also not blackmailed or tortured to write it.
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