Discs are just not me but I love my dancing shoes.
It took a lot of time, ample jostling skills, and many buckets full of money to be standing on the white floor. Because that is exactly what I was doing at 10 pm. Standing. The rooms (dance floors, if you will) were full of dolled up chicks and dandy boys by now. A jumbo plastic glass poised in everyone’s hand, loud remixed music filling the room, and everyone standing. It took another hour and a lot of alcohol to get most people dancing.
Disappointed by the very first look around, most of us friends roamed from one level to the other in search of good music and maybe a place to sit. Found neither, however, found a dark level with comparatively good music and a lot of balloons on the floor, shady people lurking around the corners. Make out level, we called it.
At 11 pm, I asked the husband if he thought we would be served any grub. He seemed doubtful. I interested him in the dark level but he is shy. So with nothing better to do, we started to dance (or rather to wave our arms up n down and left n right, considering moving ones feet would have been an impossible feat). A couple of our friends were having a gala time by now. Another two were just happy to be out on the 31st, and I was simply thankful for my cute and comfy dancing shoes. I chose them over my sexy bronze heels but looking around at skimpily clad women concentrating hard on not falling on the dance floor, I was glad I made a sensible choice.
Every time the husband wanted to give up and try to find something better to do, he would find something that would send him back to the floor. For example, the puke outside the dance floor. It was amidst such weirdness and sweat that I rang in the new year. The only saving grace of this non-fun night was friends. I am officially off the dance floors. If I am in Hyderabad and you want to take me out post dinner, Ten Downing Street is the only place I am going.
Maybe I am aging but I would vote for the cozy dinner n drinks at Punjabi by Nature or Bukhara over the madness called Touch any day. Or rather, any year.
Disappointed by the very first look around, most of us friends roamed from one level to the other in search of good music and maybe a place to sit. Found neither, however, found a dark level with comparatively good music and a lot of balloons on the floor, shady people lurking around the corners. Make out level, we called it.
At 11 pm, I asked the husband if he thought we would be served any grub. He seemed doubtful. I interested him in the dark level but he is shy. So with nothing better to do, we started to dance (or rather to wave our arms up n down and left n right, considering moving ones feet would have been an impossible feat). A couple of our friends were having a gala time by now. Another two were just happy to be out on the 31st, and I was simply thankful for my cute and comfy dancing shoes. I chose them over my sexy bronze heels but looking around at skimpily clad women concentrating hard on not falling on the dance floor, I was glad I made a sensible choice.
Every time the husband wanted to give up and try to find something better to do, he would find something that would send him back to the floor. For example, the puke outside the dance floor. It was amidst such weirdness and sweat that I rang in the new year. The only saving grace of this non-fun night was friends. I am officially off the dance floors. If I am in Hyderabad and you want to take me out post dinner, Ten Downing Street is the only place I am going.
Maybe I am aging but I would vote for the cozy dinner n drinks at Punjabi by Nature or Bukhara over the madness called Touch any day. Or rather, any year.