Here’s a tightening in my chest that just won’t go away, even when I wear a shirt twice my size. There’s a dull gnawing in the back of my head that gets louder every time I try to ignore it. There’s also a twitch at the temple that ends near my eye, which makes me look like I’m sending out conspiratorial winks... and if I don’t address that one, men (and maybe women), will sue me for sexual harassment.

You’re probably wondering why I’m wasting good space whining away like this about my malady.
It’s because it happens to me every change of season. This one is for the party season.
I am not a party animal. Not that I don’t enjoy partying. But I cannot party compulsively. I try occasionally to get on the bus but then I find myself tossed about so violently that I get off the bus as fast. And watch the lights go out from a distance.

But I am in awe of party people. They’re from a different planet. I just love how late into the night, the gloss on their skin is still high. No sweaty upper lip, hair still sculpted, no mascara running into pools of dark circles. No under eye circles at the start of the next day either. I marvel at the way they will never be spotted wearing the same outfit twice. Ever. Or their ability to shake hands, with one guest, air kiss another, scream out a greeting to the third and wave at the fourth in one seamless motion. Easy you say? Do it yourself and if you’re not practised, try this at home first and watch how you spin like a top and land on your chin.

Partying is an art. And it’s hard work. If you think you're sweating it from 9 to 5, think of the poor PAs. They're at the grind from 9 to 5 too, from night to day. While you’ve had your dinner, watched ‘Desperate Housewives’ and tucked yourself into bed, they’re out there, the poor things, wearing Jimmy Choos that pinch their pinkies till they want to scream, but they can’t, you see. Because if they do, the face will crease and the fine lines that took 90 minutes to conceal will reveal all. Sudden motion in the party circuit is taboo.

If you think partying is easy, watch how the beautiful people have to hold their chins in check, suck in their tummies all evening, waiting madly to exhale. Keeping your tummy in, back straight, head held high five hours in a row is no fun. But that is the lot of the party hopper.

Ever seen how they glide in and out of a stretch limo? It’s as if they're on a conveyor belt. I tried it once and felt like a defiant pebble in a stream. Not only did it take me two minutes to recall whether the legs go in first or the bottom, but once in, I realised I was facing a long and narrow cave. Worse, since there were three long legged beauties behind me, I had to make room for their limbs. I had two choices - to crawl on all fours into this cavernous limo or do an excruciating bump and jump routine like a badly formed rubber ball. My companions on the other hand, had no such problems. They swished in and with one practised swoop, swished again, and then once more, and they had installed themselves in the belly of the limo with the same ease that they sashay on the ramps.

So you see, there’s a lot of hard work that goes into being the stars of the night. It takes hours of practice, you need to have the stamina of the long distance runner and the flamboyance of an artist to create a new face each night.
I have none.
Now you know why my psycho-soma kicks in.