No, I didn't just recover from the longest hangover known to mankind. I had to crochet some items in preparation for this freaky cold weather out here in Atlanta. Apparently, snow is a pretty regular surprise around these parts. I believe snow, albeit pretty, is both ungodly and insane. Anyhow, contrary to popular notion, I very rarely venture out into the nightlife scene of the last day of the year. I don't like being cold and I don't like being charged up the ass to take up a few hours of residence at a venue I'd otherwise get into for free. I've said it before and I'll say it again - I should not have to pay to get the party started. Believe me; I start parties. I'm the first fool in the center of the dance floor spilling my drink, smiling from ear to ear. To charge me a fee for that type of allegiance to celebration is an atrocity.
Thank goodness for my newly forged friendship with African party promoters. Due to the wonderfully Nigerian Emeka, I was able to secure $50 tickets for the bargain basement price of $20. Thus, casually clad to accommodate the brisk weather and the need to get low (get low, get low, get low, get low, get low...) we ventured out to the historic Biltmore Hotel on Peachtree. We entered into a sea of women wearing pneumonia attracting cocktail dresses and their male counterparts stuffed down in suits with expensive cleaning bills. Up the stairs and through the lobby, there was a large ballroom playing reggae to our right and a large ballroom playing Top 40's to our left. Both rooms featured large television screens counting down to midnight. We purchased our drink tickets, grabbed a couple of cocktails and then preceded to the reggae room where the DJ was shouting incoherently in hopes of luring ladies to the dance floor.
All around us, folks seemed to be happy, smiling, snapping pictures in their NYE finery, sipping their drinks and then nervously looking at the dance floor to see when they could safely hide among the more emboldened revellers. I shook my head. If I had paid $50 and lord knows how much for my outfit and hair to come to a New Year party, the last thing I would do is theorize about dancing. I would be dancing something akin to the way the bartenders were dancing in the video above. I grabbed my mate, pointed out a good spot that would allow us plenty of elbow room and made my way over to our dancing base for the night. 
We danced. We danced. We danced some more. We danced as if there wasn't a single other soul in the room. We danced in celebration of the year we had just weathered. We danced in exultation of the new year ahead. When we got tired, we watched the other few who came to shake off 2009 with careless abandon. Oh how I love the unabashed and the unashamed. Some day the world will be ours. As the clock struck midnight, the floor finally filled to capacity, we clung to each other ferociously and smooched up a storm in the same fashion that we had the previous year overlooking the Las Vegas Strip. 
We continued to bring in 2010 just letting ourselves be free to the sounds of a Michael Jackson mix and various popular dancehall rhythms. We also furiously texted well wishes to friends around the country. Between the two activities, I'm guessing that I lost a good seven pounds. At about 2:45am, we decided to call it a night. As we were leaving, we happened upon a woman who can be most accurately described as big and fine. She was throwing up in the bushes along the sidewalk. I dug out a couple of pieces of gum and gave it to her. Tis the year to be charitable and we party girls have to look out for each other.Happy New Year!
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