November 13, 2013
This blog is not real life. You know that, right reader?
I talk about this with les blogueuses sometimes. Our sites filter our lives through a hazy glow of food and fun and travel and beauty and all the good things in life. The truth is, of course, that I have a nine-to-five where I sit at a desk and type a lot. Most of the stuff that shows up here is squeezed around the demands of being a capable adult.
There are some times, though, when it feels like I’ve dropped out of real life and into some bizarre, richly-colored parody — a cross of Hollywood movie magic and the sparkling glamour of Paris. This was one of those nights.
There was a house party. There were two bars. There was a party bus, and a case of champagne that disappeared in half an hour, some of which was, of course, spilled and had to be mopped up with a silk scarf. There was singing of Queen and lots of blurry photos.
And, undoubtedly, there were hangovers and a hard return to reality the next day.