Have you ever found yourself half-naked, "half in the bag", and fully mortified, at first because you're there, and then because you're actually enjoying it?
No?
Then you've never been invited to a peg city pool party.
If you haven't had the rhetorical pleasure, allow me to illustrate the circumstance.
Picture this:
It's 29 degrees, without wind, or shade. Empty energy drink cans make rattling sounds as Haiviana clad feet kick them across a makeshift dance floor. The DJ rotates multiple adaptations of Alan Braxe and DJ Tiesto "hits" so loud that even the neighbours are inadvertently popping and locking in the privacy of their backyards. Your tattoos have never seemed so insignificant, and you're reminded, repeatedly, why a navel ring was never a good idea. So, you and the six or seven people that you actually know stand on the south-west corner of the pool, readily sipping sponsored vodka until the booty shorts become less ridiculous and the cowboy hats start to look kitschy-cute. Soon, you're dancing, and shouting and using the porta-potties as needed. No shame. Sunstroked, stumbling, and six hours later, you make your way home, still damp and delighted but sobering slowly, only to review your photos - with complete disbelief.
This. Actually. Happened. Like a Kid Rock video that lasts all afternoon.
And the best? You'd do it all over again next summer.
But don't tell your cool friends.
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