Top of the World

Joy and I put on and take off at least three outfits each. Everything. Pants, tops, bras, shoes, earrings.

We wander in and out of the enormous bathroom, applying this, brushing that, and generally giving a lift to everything from head to toe.

Kate calls. She is on her way to the airport. Start without us. There are two bars in the place. She suggests the rooftop bar.

Joy and I inspect each other's finished appearances, unplug our charging phones, make sure a lipstick and door key is in each of our purses and head to the roof.

We are stopped at the entrance to the secret elevator. There is a private party of some sort at the roof top bar. And no we are not allowed to crash. So what if we are fabulous. And have money to burn.

We tell the doorman he'll regret it and head to the other bar.  First floor. Cool industrial decor. Great beer and wine selection. Joy and I find a table perfectly situated for people watching. It is the tail end of happy hour. There should be plenty to watch.

Can I ask when sequins became standard office attire in business?  For every man who came in wearing a beautiful dark suit, or a business casual shirt and jacket and polished shoes, there was at least one if not two overly curling-ironed, glossy woman in something glittery. And usually too short.  I could certainly be accused of being a slave to fashion, and admit to keeping up on trends, but I would be loathe to step across the threshold of my office looking like I'd hot glued a bunch of Christmas ornaments to my outfit. But there was reflecto-gear everywhere. I felt like a librarian in comparison.

And here's the thing, ladies, if you can't walk in the shoes, they cease to be sexy the moment you teeter unsteadily across the floor in the direction of the bar. Lose and inch and re-gain your sashay.

Two drinks into our people watching stint, Kate texts that she has arrived.  We go back to the room to meet her and her sister, to do more catching up, more primping and to check on the status of our ability to gain admission to the much coveted roof top bar. It is a gorgeous balmy December night. We won't get many more chances until Spring.

Soon enough we are back on the elevator headed to the roof. The same doorman turns us away. The company has extended its time. We uniformly snarl at him and make snarky parting comments as we re-enter the elevator to head into the city.

Joy and I suggest the first floor bar, it has been good to us so far. But instead we hop in a cab. The out-of-town sister needs to be shown a good time, and the best place to start is the club house high atop the loft condominiums in one of the city's tallest buildings.  Great views. Great reputation. Sure to be brimming with eligible bachelors, I'm told.

We introduce ourselves to the cabby, and he introduces himself to us. We will call him later when we need him. Can he be at our beck and call? 

Habib agress and steps on the gas. The Pub Crawl has begun.