In which my fearless colleagues and I lugged a whole party's worth of supplies and booze on a hand-truck over eight blocks of cobblestones and I tended bar. Donated chocolate chip cookies from Double Crown were a hit, but the trickle of pseudo-interested partygoers left much to be desired on what may have been coldest night ever.
Three parties over: the mannequin is back in her store, the leftover liquor has been locked in the storage room, and I am pooped.
I wonder: have I worked too hard? Or is this exhaustion rather a byproduct of my recent tango homecoming? (This morning may have been much easier had I gone home at 9:3o last night like any sensible, underslept adult.)
Instead, I donned my stinky, sullied dance shoes and a bag of Goldfish (Hey, a girl's gotta eat!) and headed to the milonga.
Three parties over: the mannequin is back in her store, the leftover liquor has been locked in the storage room, and I am pooped.
I wonder: have I worked too hard? Or is this exhaustion rather a byproduct of my recent tango homecoming? (This morning may have been much easier had I gone home at 9:3o last night like any sensible, underslept adult.)
Instead, I donned my stinky, sullied dance shoes and a bag of Goldfish (Hey, a girl's gotta eat!) and headed to the milonga.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment