In which I used my hundred thousand dollar education to ferry rich people up five floors in the penthouse elevator at the first of three (count em, three) holiday events at work.
I also managed to pull off the hors d'oeuvres-for-dinner slash drink-mucho-vino trick again with relative success and few instances of catastrophe. Although, something tells me this is not a sustainable mode of existence, even during the holidays. I am exhausted.
Also, I managed somehow to pop a tiny blood vessel in my eye. For the next ten to fourteen days, I will have what looks to be a very festive freckle in my left sclera. Ho fricken ho.
In other news, you may have noticed a decline in the discussion of my personal life. I assure you, while things have quieted down considerably on that front (read: I am no longer giving my phone number to random aviators on the Airbus320), the sleigh is still flying. I just need to get a grip on the reindeer reins before I subject anyone else to a rehashing of my escapades.
And perhaps I strive for a little less analysis these days. Growing up was a good idea and, while it may seem counter-intuitive to the process, my first task appears to be a flying leap in the opposite direction of my best behavior. I've been a good girl for a very long time.
Maybe that never changes. But, just for now—at least until the holidays are over and we officially enter winter's naturally ascetic backswing—I'm going to cut loose a little. I'm going to muscle through this slew of holiday parties with a delphic smile and a glass of bubbly and—goddamnit—I'm gonna do it in style.
*Footnote on the picture: this represents the sole photographic evidence of last night's event. Worth a thousand words?