Last night we attended a “work” Halloween party. As everyone knows, these can be unpredictable situations depending on if you dress up, what you dress up as, what others are dressed up as, and what kind of group dynamic — good, bad or awkward — results from all that. This party was about half and half — half in costume and half concluding that remaining in suitable work attire was the better, if not easier decision.

The party was at a large venue in Clark Quay, painted black inside with infinite flashing lights, shooting smoke and music so loud that conversation was ruled out as a means of communication. Instead, there were charades for “more beer?”, “let’s dance”, “Jagerbombs!” and “I’m not feeling so well”. I had two of the “Jagerbombs!” and managed to steer clear of the other seven most people had, because I was out on the dance floor jumping and twirling like I was 21 again.

Having danced (ballet, jazz, modern + gymnastics) and LOVED it wholeheartedly from 6 to 18 years of age, for me dancing is serious business. I’m not a toe-tapper who bobs up and down to the rhythm. I summon my inner Sasha Fierce (thanks, Beyonce, for putting name to that feeling inside) and let the music take me over. So, instead of wearing a costume and looking ridiculous, I danced my way to ridiculous and left the party at 2:00 a.m. in a full sweat like I’d just taken an aerobics class. Awesome! Let’s go clubbing again!

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