Who's Partyin'?

Dav and I first met in Prague at a giant party I threw. A whole roast pig and ballroom dancing were involved. Or maybe we met at the expat Thanksgiving dinner on Katka and Sarka Jana's floor. It's all very unclear. Because why? Because we were partyin'.

Partyin' for Dav is not an occasional event. It's an approach to life. And it's one that I appreciate. I am fairly certain Dav has been at every significant party I've ever thrown, invited or not. He one time "happened" to be in Australia at the same time I was. And yes, we did end up partyin'.

Weddings in Minnesota, birthdays in Malibu, group vacations in Paris and Palm Springs – I have partied at all of these places with Dav. I learned that it doesn't matter if you move hundreds of miles away; 20 years later, Dav will hunt you down and continue to party with you.

And please don't think Dav confines himself to formal party situations. Dav will party on a Tuesday at 3PM in your mom and dad's living room. And he will definitely party in the kitchen while he's cooking you up the best meal you've ever had in your life. Anytime, anywhere – Dav is ready to go.

I have tons of photos with Dav, because he's been at almost every party I've attended since we met last century. I have to say, I don't love how I look in most of them. I'm usually drunk and dancing and have sweated through my clothes and really do not give a fuck how I look because I am way too deep into the party. As Dav would say, this is the fucking point.

Dav's been in my life so long that he has seen me with every possible hair color, from red to black to blue-black to inadvisable to blonde and back again. And I've seen him take on every type of outfit and usually win, except for that one time he tried that vest made from a Cub Scout sleeping bag.

But some things never change. The white tank top. The determination to take his shirt off, no matter the time, place, location, or appropriateness. And most of all, the wide-open, alarmingly-muscled arms; the lit-up smile; and the sheer readiness – nay, insistence – that you will be partyin'.