We went to a party Saturday night.
I heard about it through work. It was invitation only. Even though it was benefiting the organization I work for, we didn’t have that many details. You had to RSVP because if you weren’t on the list, you couldn’t get in. You were supposed to dress up (a rare thing in Seattle). There would be free drinks, dancing and you would get your photo taken upon entry, sort of like a red carpet affair. That photo was then uploaded immediately and projected onto a wall in one of the party rooms where everyone could see the “who’s who” entering the party.
So a bunch of us decide to go and are all in a panic about what to wear. I had Friday off from work which, consequently, is very bad for my checking account as I spent it shopping. Of course the dress I love the most is over $100. BUT IT HAS POCKETS. I am a sucker for a dress with pockets. I swear if/when I get married, my dress will have pockets. I bit the bullet, purchased it, along with a few other accessories and managed to make an outfit suitable for hobnobbing.
Even Mr. Darcy had to go shopping as he has nothing fancy. He landed a new suit jacket, dark wash jeans and button up shirt. He looked pretty dapper. I have yet to see this man in a tie. (Someday!) He included me in his shopping outting by texting me photos of options as I was at book club. He was very sweet to compromise with me as I can be kind of. . . bossy. . . when it comes to his fashion choices. Look, I am not always this angel you read before you. (Snort.)
So we get all snazzy and meet our friends for dinner and drinks before the party. It’s a good time with good people and I had a blast. But the party itself? Was way weird. There was a very bizarre mix of people in attendance. Some that quite possibly were paid to be there -the go go dancers were for sure and it appeared that there were high class hookers in attendance or just ladies with a similar wardrobe. Some party goers were very much the epitome of the aged frat boy, the trophy wife, and/or scenesters. We felt a bit out of place.
I mean, my landlord happened to be there! I would not party with my landlord on purpose. We just don’t have that kind of relationship. So despite the open bar and ample people watching, Mr. Darcy and I bowed out early. It was about 10pm when we cut out, meaning we’d been at the party a whopping hour. It wasn’t even that we were tired, it was just not our bag. We’re more the pub-going type. Get us in a group with our pals in a low key setting and we’ll likely stay out late laughing the night away. I’ve never been into clubs, huge parties, or pulsing techno even when I was in college.
But I did enjoy dressing up.
Apparently after we left the music changed to something more danceable and our crowd of friends stayed to party the night away until 1:30am. We are officially old. Oops.