4 Margaritas Later. . .

Despite the fact that Sex and the City is one of my all-time favorite TV shows and I tend to relate many of my adventures to the girls in the show, I don't actually do the party scene very often. In fact, I do it so rarely that it really is a big event just to get me out there. But this past week had been full of subconscious emotional stress and deep down there was an inexplicable desire to go out and burn off some steam in an environment completely out of my normal realm of reality. It was that same reckless abandon that sent me to some random masquerade a few years back. So when one of my single Facebook friends announced her desire to gather some friends for a night of dancing in Portland to celebrate her birthday, I responded immediately in the affirmative. At least this time I had some idea, however slight, of who I would be going out with.

Since I go out so rarely, I'm very conscious of my drinking limits. Especially since I usually have to drive myself home. But this time I would be going along for the ride in every sense of the phrase. That was good planning on my part since I would be so far out of my comfort zone (a group of unfamiliar people in a crowded party scene expecting me to dance and talk and pretending that I'm not at all uncomfortable or shy) I knew I would need quite a bit of alcohol assistance. I was curious to see what would happen when I passed my usual stopping points.

We started the night at a 10:00 pm show at Harvey's comedy club. Being a Saturday night it was incredibly full. So much so that the seven of us were forced to scrunch around a tiny table and spill over to another table that luckily had a couple empty seats and very gracious occupants who didn't mind shuffling around a bit so our overflow could at least be close to our overcrowded table for two. This brings us to Margarita #1. Apparently this is what it takes to keep me from hyperventilating in the crush of people surrounding me. It's also what allows me to find tolerance (and chuckles) for the crude humor coming at me from on-stage. You can never be sure with Harvey's what kind of comedians you are going to get, but you can usually bet that Friday and Saturday nights are going to be less "family friendly" than during the week (not that any are appropriate for children. It's still a club and you have to be 21 to go in anyway). The comedians were funny (if a little embarrassing to my prudish side which hadn't yet had enough tequila to put it to sleep) and we all had a lot of fun laughing (which is the point of going to a comedy club, after all).

Next we walked a couple blocks down to a club called Embers. When we walked in, we were greeted with strobing colored lights on the dance floor and the boom-ba-boom-ba-boom of dance remixed 80's music. My first thought was of an episode of Sex and the City where the girls go to Stanton Island and dance to 80's music after judging the hot firefighters competition. While the others wandered the crowd and looked for a table, I headed off to the bar and ordered Margarita #2. This one was to allow me to talk to the strangers I was spending the evening hanging with. This is also usually where I stop in my normal world. It's just enough to loosen me up enough to forget I'm shy, but not so much that I can't drive home at the end of the evening. But I wasn't driving that night, so that didn't have to be a factor for once.

You know, it's really hard to sit and get to know people at a dance club. I suppose I should have realized that I wasn't going to be allowed to hang out at the table and chat. Eventually one of our group left us to check out the drag show in the other part of the club and Dee Dee (the birthday girl) dragged the rest of us out to the dance floor. The second I stepped out on the floor, a new song started and I cringed. Of all the dang-gum 80's songs to greet me on the dance floor. . . I stood there for a few seconds, trying to get my body to pretend to dance along, but I realized very quickly that I didn't have enough alcohol in me to bust a dance move to the dreaded sounds of "Love shack, baby, love shack. . . " so I gracefully swung my hips toward the bar and picked up Margarita #3.

Okay, usually this is the point where bad ideas seem like good ideas, which is why I don't make it here very often. Luckily, this situation didn't lend itself to much in the way of "bad decision making" so I was pretty safe. But apparently #3 is also where my prudish side calls it a night and goes to sleep and I'm left determining that the idea of watching a drag show with everyone else seems completely logical and normal (not to mention, a hell of a way to celebrate a girlfriend's birthday!). So, off to the other side of the bar we headed.

What an experience that turned out to be! I had been dragged to a gay bar a couple times in my past, but I've never actually come face-to-face with a drag situation. I was rather impressed with the level these guys go to. I marvelled at their make-up techniques and their ability to fill out the evening gowns. And I had to admit, some of them were rather pretty. As they danced and lip-synced to Beyoncé and the likes there of, I wondered if it was a heightened sense of self-confidence or an extreme under-development of such that caused these guys to shave their legs and don the sparkles and wigs. No matter; we all make our place in this world in our own ways. I wasn't there to judge. So instead, I clapped and whistled and cheered with the crowd. Thanks to my location in the group (slightly separated from the others, using the small table to my left instead of the long table they surrounded), I seemed to garner a lot of attention from the lovely "ladies" on-stage. A few even came down to where I sat and sang and/or danced a little for me. Whether it's because tequila is a better sleeping agent to my sense of embarrassment than vodka or because they kept themselves fully dressed, I was amused to discover that I was less uncomfortable than the night I had an almost naked guy shaking his groove-thang at me at the bachelorette party last March.

Eventually, it was time for the "Last Dance" which apparently is the closing song for all drag shows. By that time, I had finished with Margarita #4 and it seems that is the magic number to get me out on the dance floor.

By the time we returned to the dance floor area of the club, they had moved out of the remixed 80's and into something more contemporary. And we danced. And danced. And danced. I'm not sure how they talked me into it, but there was even a little cage dancing going on (I hear rumor that there are even pictures documenting the event, but since I haven't seen them, I can't confirm that yet). But I did manage to snag one of the photos proving that I did actually get out and bust a move or two.

Dancing takes a lot of energy and made us all very tired and thristy. But seeing as I was feeling a touch of vertigo from my sky-high-heels already and knew I needed to still make the walk back to the car, I opted for water at that point. Probably a good idea. While out on the dance floor, I had closed my eyes and had a brief vision of myself as the Northwest version of Charlotte after one-too-many Stanton Island Ice Teas. I was afraid that one more would have me hanging out the minivan window as we crossed the 205 bridge, screaming "You hear me Portland: I'm getting married this year!!!" (And yes, for all the many of you who have never seen Sex and the City, there is a fantastic episode reference there).

When we finally decided we were done, we made our way back to the car. As we passed a different bar or club or something, we walked through the middle of a group of people standing outside smoking and talking about who-knows-what. As I stepped past one of the guys, he looked at me and said "What's the capital of Montana?" as if he was trying to prove a point to one of his buddies.

Without pausing I replied "Who cares? We don't live there."

He laughed and said "I know, right?" I tossed him one of my flirty smiles and kept going.

Suddenly I heard him calling after me. I turned around and said "yes?"

"You have a fine booty."

"Thanks," I grinned at him. "I work hard on it."

Such an interesting night. Makes me curious as to what would have happened after #5. . .