My dear friend Kristi's birthday was on Monday, and to celebrate the girls decided to go to Atlanta. By the "girls" I mean myself, Deirdre, Ashley and, of course, Kristi: the birthday girl herself.
We had little time and a lot of enthusiasm. Our ambitious plans to leave at 7am were edited and we left, in true southern fashion, three hours late at 11 am-hungover and ready for a road trip.
The ride down was exciting. I was an Atlanta virgin and was anxious to see the southern metropolis first hand. Although the rest of the girls had been to the city before, we were
all most anxious about
one thing in particular: the new H&M store in downtown. All of us but Ashley were H&M virgins and were were salivating at the thought of walking through the store's stylish aisles and gazing at the oh-so-reasonable price tags. For those of you unfamiliar with H&M, I feel deeply sorry for you. There is not enough space to explain it's gloriousness, but I shall just say this: it is a department store with more style than American's can fathom, it comes from Sweden and it. is. FABULOUS.
We arrived in downtown Atlanta just in time for cocktail hour. It was the birthday girl's request that we have cosmos before we venture into the land of Euro-inspired couture. A good idea indeed, we all agreed, and proceeded to have two each at an establishment with a very hip bar that was covered in ice. Thoroughly buzzed, we decided we were in the perfect mind frame to go shopping-and SHOP we did. Shopped too much. Shopped with money we did not have. Shopped with money we did have but should not spend. Shop with money we could spend and did spend. Shopped ourselves happy. Shopped ourselves guilty. Shopped like true American consumers. And loved every minute of it.
After the blur of H&M was over and we walked out with hefty shopping bags full of beautiful merchandise, I looked around us at the people on the street and I was pleasantly surprised. Unlike the Caucasian streets of Asheville, Atlanta has a diversity level that is most refreshing. I felt like the minority being white, and I have to say-I loved it.
Ashley drove us to the Super 8 motel that was to be our home for the evening. Our H&M bags were torn asunder and our merchandise was promptly put on our bodies. Checking ourselves out in the greasy mirror, in the dim light of our humble abode, we scanned our ensembles, doubted ourselves, reassured each other accordingly and set out for a night on the town-looking cute as hell if I do say so myself.
Kristi's best friend from high school, who had just moved to the ATL, and his adorable boyfriend, were our hosts for the evening. We started out at a gay bar in midtown and proceeded to get nice and drunk before moving on to the next destination. This is where the fun part happens. Or the awful part, however you choose to look at it. It was the birthday girl's choice that we go to the 74th floor of the Westin hotel to the rotating bar that overlooks the city. Sounds fab right? Right. Unless your name is Ashley. You see, my dear friend Ashley Lawson has a terrible, lifelong phobia of elevators. She is also extremely claustrophobic and very stubborn. The stubborn part also goes for Ms. Kristina Hayden-birthday girl extroidanaire-and Kristi said we were going to the Westin. So to the Westin we went. Temper's fuming, alcohol flowing and the adventure just
starting to get under way, we drove to the hotel.
When we asked her for access to the stairwell, the woman at the front desk looked at us like we were mental patients speaking another language
"You're walking to
what floor?!?" she asked aghast.
After the fifth tim
e of repeating our intention, it took her about 20 minutes to get us in to the stairwell, shaking her head as she opened the door. We started at the 9th floor, which mean that we had 63 fun filled flights to complete until we reached our destination. Given our level of intoxication, the first 20 weren't that bad. Then our lungs started to remind us exactly how much were were climbing, and the beads of sweat starting to drip down our backs and faces were not so gentle reminders that were about to get our asses kicked. Every ten flights we stopped to lie down. Deirdre and Ashley pulled their dresses up around their chests and it turned into a hlaf naked climb up the stairs. Perhaps I have forgotten to mention that Ashley has a bad knee. A very bad knee, and it was beginning to swell with every step. She was cursing Kristi's name and I would be lying if I said there was not intermittent fits of sobbing. I tried to keep it light by cracking jokes and reminding her of how much we all loved Kristi, but after the 50th flight or so I was unable to form sentences and started to wonder if cardiac arrests were common in women my age.
We reached the top, heaving, hacking and sweaty. The drunk feeling that had helped us begin the journey was all but a memory, as we had indeed walked ourselves sober. Our cuteness was a distant notion as well. The fabulous outfits, impeccable makeup and carefully done hair was replaced with pit stains, dripping mascara and hair that looked as if we had just jumped in a lake. I looked like a hagg
ard old woman with stringy hair, nasty B.O. and bulging blood vessels. We tried to open the door and realized it was locked.
Ashley quickly started to go into a claustrophobic panic. The bar employees were confused and told us, through the closed door, that we had to walk back down to the first floor. More crying ensued. The fire alarm was sounded in an attempt to get us out. Finally, after tears, sweat, more tears, and door pounding, we were set free-into the swank bar that overlooked the city-and to a view of Kristi, cocktail in hand, sweat free, still looking cute as all hell.
"I just want you to know.......that.....this means....... I love you." I said, wheezing out my sentences as if I were on my deathbed, dying of emphysema.
Kristi and Ashley exchanged glares, then smiles, then cocktails and we all settled in to look at the beautiful view. We were quite the celebrities in the bar, and the news traveled fast about the three crazy girls that walked up 63 flights of stairs to get a drink. We once again achieved a happy level of drunk and then left to pursue other watering holes-everyone else in the elevator-and Ashley and I back in the trusty stairwell.
The rest of the evening is a blur, as you may imagine, and eventually we ended up back at the Super 8-passed out in our sweaty dresses and dreaming of large glasses of ice cold water.
It was a short trip-and the next day we packed up for the miserably hungover drive home. I was the driver, and I must say the enthusiasm of the previous day was a distant memory. It was replaced with a sel
f loathing that only 7 hours of drinking can instill. It took me and hour and a half to choke down my seven layer burrito from Taco Bell-shuddering at the thought of that third Long Island ice tea the night before. There was nary a sentence spoken for almost two hours. But, as we neared home and drove into the beautiful Blue Ridge mountains, slowly sweating the toxins out of our pores and mulling over the previous nights events, we became reflective and even appreciative. Not to say there is not still some pent up resentments between certain people, or some overdrawn bank accounts in need of replenishing-but we were all in it together. Our night in Atlanta was ours and only ours. It will remain in our memories, be replayed in stories at various social events-and live in our hearts-and livers-forever.
