Not My Era, Still My Night
Punk happened well before my time. Like the Viking era or the Victorians, I’ve never felt a strong urge to dress for it either. But, as with most principles I claim to have, they tend to collapse the moment the right invite hits my phone. And invites from the Continental come with priority.
So the question wasn’t if I’d end up on that rooftop for DJ Erin’s punk set, it was: how am I going to make this look good?
Luckily, I’d met Jolene the day before. You know those people you instantly clock as someone who would let you borrow their clothes? That was her. So I borrowed a sweater, built the rest of the look from my increasingly expanding wardrobe , called my hairdresser because I had somewhere important to be, and added makeup with more than enough drama to suggest I’ve lived trhough the age of safety pins and ripped tights. I was ready. Or at least pretending to be.
Taya and I arrived, as we do, in style. Erin delivered. Friend groups merged and re-merged in that way that happens when the music is loud enough and the lighting is forgiving. At some point I made a discovery about a so-called safe space that felt… less safe than I considered it to be. I’m still deciding whether that’s a story for later or something I need to get tested for.
But for a Tuesday? This was kind of epic. Which, admittedly, is becoming the low bar in my life lately.
I don’t mind.
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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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