One of my favorite stories to tell is the story of the night I had my first cocktail at 24-years-old. It’s so absurd, so colorful. A smile always crosses my face the second I think about that night – how drunk my friend got and kissed a fashion designer on the cheek in front of his wife, the two gay men who vogued with us on a dance floor, how horribly bad I was at ordering a cocktail to begin with, the model my friend hit on for me an how he declined to dance instantly.
Change is deceptive. You look away one minute and a few years have passed, and you’ve made small incremental changes contributing to one big change. At least for me, that’s the way its always been. That night I had my first drink I never imagined that I’d turn into the type of girl to dance alone in a nightclub in front of a bunch of strangers. The bravery wasn’t there, and I didn’t imagine that it’d ever be.
I went to a birthday party on Friday night. I expected just to spend a few hours at the pre-party and the party – I ended up staying out till 3 am. I was on the dance floor completely sober, waving my hands and shimmy-ing and ignoring the world around me. All the conclusions from that week culminated out there, as cheesy and cliché as it sounds.
All the ideas I’d had that week about what it means to be young, instigated wholly by my birthday passing and being surrounded by those younger than me, suddenly seemed very clear. You won’t have these moments again, and someday I’ll sit up in a chair and wish I were 29, so that night I just said, “for now I’ll dance and worry about my muscles being sore later.” For me, that hardly ever happens.