On Friday night the Boy and I went to Macy’s Glamorama After-Party. Glamorama is a huge annual fundraising fashion show, which I’ve always been curious about but have never gone to. However, I got an invite to the after-party, so we went.
The Boy and I are not clubbers. I’d planned on wearing something a skosh more punk, but it turned out to be a little black dress kind of event for me. After picking up our wristbands, I fretted for most of a train ride home because I didn’t have any shoes to wear with my little black dress (a. ban on most shopping, b. rarely need to wear them, c. can’t find a pair I like and haven’t used Zappos because of (a)). I thought I’d have to scour DSW with money I didn’t really want to spend–I’m going to officiate at the North Central Regional roller derby tournament in a few weeks, and money on shoes vs. money on the trip is a tough decision. Then I remembered: I have ballroom dance shoes. Cute ones, with about two inch heels and little rinestone circles on them. Crisis averted!
The Boy dolled up in his nice suit and black bow tie. Together we looked presentable (both of us need haircuts, but we looked presentable). We headed on the bus in our finery to the shindig.
The party took place on the 7th floor of Macy’s State Street store–where the Walnut Room and other restaurants are. When you walked in, you saw some Wii stations, a dessert station, a little bit of seating, some more food, and a place where you could take your photo. Walk around, and you’d find other bars and food stations. They cleared out all the Walnut Room seats and put in a huge elevated dance floor, complete with lights and fog machines and side stages for scantily-clad dancers to do their thing. It was something.
We waited in line for drinks–again, not being used to a super-crowded club scene, we also aren’t used to waiting for drinks, and by the time the line started moving, I’d given up on a Patron-inspired cocktail (Patron was a sponsor, so they had some special cocktails), simply because I didn’t want to wait for the bartender to make it. I had wine, the Boy had scotch, we were fine.
Not knowing what to do, we watched a few people shake it up on the dance floor, and once we finished our beverages, I conned the Boy into dancing. Usually he loves it, but he was skeptical here because the DJ seemed to have ADD–you’d be 30 seconds or a minute into a song, and he’d switch it up–was incredibly hard to dance to. However, we made something work right, because a woman came up to us later and complemented us on our dancing (thanks again, Arthur Murray!).
We actually didn’t stay too long at the party, mostly because of the ADD DJ, who, after finally playing something with a real tune, would shake up and insert songs so much that it actually became difficult to really listen and enjoy the music. Even with a Michael Jackson medley (hey DJs, how many of you quickly added Michael to your repetoire after he died and you realized just how good the old songs were?).
Maybe we’re getting old, but even though it was fun to experience a different side of nightlife at the party, I still enjoyed ending the evening with a martini at the bar around the corner with the juke box and the friendly bartender. But that’s just how I roll.
