Girls Gone Mild!

I'm not embarrassed to tell you that I can be a little shallow. I like a nice bag and hot shoes. I adore my diamond wedding ring. And I love reading about celebrity exploits at all the cool clubs around town. Between that and Sex and the City reruns showcasing the breathy excitement of what's inside, I decided it would be a neat idea to have a club night with all my gal pals.

The key to club night is actually getting into the club. I have heard countless stories of cranky and demented doorment who execute a perplexing decision-making process to determine who gets in. I abhor waiting in lines. I was willing to pay a little to get on a list or have some assurance of VIP treatment.

We first made some calls to the Pink Elephant, but it was going to cost us something like $300 a person. I wasn't sure if I actually wanted to pay that much. Fortunately the Little Nolita Lady had some connections, and we were able to secure our names on a VIP list for the opening of a new club called The Mansion.

Club night started at about midnight (gasp). The line to get in the door wasn't really a line at all, but a mob scene. Exasperated club staff hulked up and down the sidewalk yelling at all the frivolity seekers to form one single line. Which they didn't. For awhile, we couldn't even find anyone in charge to confirm our VIP status. Then it seemed like EVERYONE in the line around us thought they were a VIP too. We thought our whole plan had gone down the tubes. But a few recon missions later, and we were in, baby. And while it was good to be in, it wasn't what I expected. The idea of it was much better than the reality. Nevertheless, we had a fun night dancing and getting wired on vodka and Red Bull.

At around 4 am, we tried to change the scenery a bit. But after waiting in another line - one in which there was no VIP pass waiting for us at the end - we decided to hit the road. Our Sex and the City night was a blast. But I'd rather cuddle up with my greatest accessory - The Boy.

Flying through the air with the greatest of . . . please.

So I had another Sex in the City moment recently. An acquaintance asked me if I wanted to accompany several folks to the trapeze school that Carrie immortalized in one of the episodes.

I was so excited to go, but didn't know quite what to expect. I had visions of gracefully catapulting through the air looking both athletic and relaxed.

What I got was quite different. Turns out I'm afraid of heights. Very afraid of heights.

First I wouldn't jump off the platform (even though I was protected by a harness and a very forgiving net). Absolutely refused. It was starting to get embarrassing. Finally I aquiesced (mainly because I didn't relish the prospect of disembarking the platform via the rickety ladder.). Then, once I made the leap, I wouldn't let go of the bar. No way. Not gonna do it. I was just hanging there, eyes closed, refusing to let go, while all of the other students looked on. They had to manually lower the bar down toward the net before I felt comfortable. Did I mention this was in front of a few people that I work with? I'm still embarrassed, but relieved I never have to do that again.

My sister, the Dainty Drug Dealer, wants to try it when she comes into town next month. I'm doing her and the rest of the class a favor. I'll be taking photos on the sidelines.