Tuesday Night Fever

For the past few weeks, my weekdays have somehow morphed into my weekends. This is not convenient in the slightest, as I have also begun French classes once again and am working more than I have been in quite some time. Add to that my guitar lessons, dance classes and various other creative intentions, and I can't say that being an idiot on a Tuesday night leads to anything close to the realm of productive. To be fair, I do not go out on a Tuesday night with any plan to be ridiculous bordering stupidity. In fact, I generally have very casual or even businesslike plans that would lend the belief my evening would be nice but sedate. Instead, mayhem oft pursues.

For example, this past Tuesday, a friend from Scotland was visiting town. I met him during my first romp in Paris several years ago, so we decided to meet for a drink or two in central Paris. Another one of our mutual friends was planning to join, so she and I arranged to meet a bit early for girl gab and the like. We headed to our usual haunt, the Australian bar Café Oz, where we were immediately overwhelmed by the mass crowd congregating inside. Little did we know that there was a rather important sports match of some kind about to begin. Scottish friend was running a bit late, so French friend and I settled in with some drinks, navigating around the overpopulated room, and holding court at our usual spot near the back of the bar. At first I thought perhaps it might be an interesting spot to meet a Frenchman or two, until I realized that I could have been wearing next to nothing, and the TV screen frankly still took precedence... Siiiiiigh...

Our Scottish friend arrived before the game was over, carving his way through the intensely dense crowd. Luckily, the game ended rather quickly, and since none of the audience had any interest in the bar once the score was tallied, we were instantly abandoned and left in a practically empty space. This is probably where things went from mild to mayhem. The music was playing, the drinks were flowing, and my new, adorable little outfit (blue satin shorts with a gold glitter top) was aching for some attention. Since this bar is known for its weekend club-like, frat-party-esque nonsense, the tables are quite used to being turned into stages for performance. With Sia playing loudly in the background, French friend and I could not help but interpretive dance on the wooden platforms sometimes used to dine or drink on. Spontaneous absurdity is truly the foodstuff of my very soul. I can't say there was a moment I regretted other than a very real lack of props. The next morning, however, a long, languid Saturday matin would have absolutely been best.