the_taliban_shuffle_-_kim_barker

myself, a mood that grew quickly boring. Maudlin and self-obsessed, I
dressed up for New Year’s Eve, always an exercise in unmet
expectations and amateur drinking. I slipped on a short black dress that
probably qualied more as a shirt, tights, and high-heeled black boots
with silver buckles up the side. Over the years, I had amassed my own
ridiculous wardrobe for an Islamic country.
The party was at the Canadian embassy, featuring a bad buet and
the same lame Pakistani DJ who played the same songs in the same
order at every single Islamabad party, almost daring people to dance. I
pledged myself to a good time, and immediately grabbed a glass of red
wine. I tried dancing, but teetered on my heels and towered over most
of the crowd. At one point, I sidled up to a male friend, a journalist I
had developed a slight crush on. But he was busy working the
diplomats. He dared me to ask a short Middle Eastern diplomat to
dance. I did, fairly certain that my slight crush was trying to get rid of
me. At midnight, my friends and I all kissed each other on our
respective cheeks. I tossed back red wine like water.
Later, in the bathroom, I looked at myself under harsh uorescent
lights. My black eyeliner was now smudged. One eye looked like I had
been slugged. I had bits of red wine in the corners of my mouth. My
tongue was stained purple, the color of cheap boxed wine, as were my
teeth. I looked puy, trashy, and drunk, the opposite of sexy. But I
stayed late. My slight crush drove me home, after almost backing into
the British embassy. I poured myself out of his car, into my front door,
and fell asleep in my dress and boots. I popped awake the next
morning at nine.
I needed a new start. It was a new year, after all, and Obama was
going to be president. Afghanistan and Pakistan were nally on
America’s radar, the biggest story in the world. I focused on work, on
cultivating new sources, on winning Ultimate Fight Challenge. I vowed
to do embeds, blogs, video, interviews, cartwheels, breaking news, long
features, recipes, algebra. If there was going to be some kind of contest
over my job, I was going to ght as hard as possible to win. I channeled
the theme from Rocky. I would cancel all holidays, write at all hours,
say yes to every editor. I wasn’t going to just roll over and play dead.
But I was hungover, still lying in bed, and I narrowly avoided strangling
myself in competing clichés and resolutions.