because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Thursday, 8 April 2010

The One Where My Face Matches My Purple Dress

I felt pretty good as I braced the chilly Spring wind to meet my friend for coffee across the road from my apartment. I'd chosen my very fancy purple, punch-holed, Jaeger dress. You can see it in this terrifically bad photograph of me here. I don't wear it often, because it is a bit see-through, but paired with thick leggings and a vest top I think it is bloody-well cute and today I just felt like it. It goes well with my sassy-pants.

I strutted into that coffee shop like nobody has strutted before. Sometimes you have to fake it to make it. I bumped into a table of friends and stood chatting to them whilst I waited for my buddy. I was the irritatingly loud one that kept saying, "Yah! Yah! Yah! FABULOUS!" over and over again because I felt so darned good. Some days girlfriend just has it going on. "Hahahahaha!" I guffawed as my friends entertained me with witty stories, and I returned the compliment of their attentions by being fascinated in them whilst eyeing up the cute boy in the corner i.e. I wasn't really paying any attention at all. I was that girl.

It seemed like every person I knew in the history of the universe was in that coffee shop. "Hi!" I chirruped repeatedly, waving and winking and smiling and laughing. It was exhausting, really. I felt so good though that I even paid for my buddy's coffee. "Darling! Please! Let me get this!" I squealed, and then we found somewhere quiet to sit where I could stop being fabulous and just be myself again. Phew.

On the way to an empty table we bumped into yet another person, a chap from the cast of the play I'm in. "Your dress is see-through," he told me, and I was fabulous and laughed and waved my hand as I said something about getting the boys' attention by not wearing much and then explaining how although the dress was essentially the remains of somebody's scissor-rage on a piece of cloth, one couldn't see much because of the ways the holes were designed. "It's Jaeger, after all, darling!" I explained. "It doesn't get classier than that!" Which, for the record, is about the least classy thing a person can say. My coffee buddy piped up, "And it's with tights, so that's okay." "Actually," I said. "They are leggings."

Anywoohoo. We went and sat and chatted about life and the universe and about how much I like America and about how much she had going on her life and it was all lovely, lovely, lovely.

And then I looked down, and the word went into slow motion.

"Wow," I thought. "These leggings look a bit sheer."

"Sort of shiny, like tights."

"Gosh, maybe I need to invest in a new pair of fully opaque leggings that don't show so much flesh through them. Hmmmm..."

And then I realised that I had forgotten to put on leggings over my sheer tights like I do EVERY SINGLE OTHER DAY OF MY LIFE and that I was wearing a thong AND I HARDLY EVER DO THAT and that my tights were mostly see-through to match my horribly see-through dress, and that I had stood in the middle of that coffee shop being loud and obnoxious and NAKED.

And that is the story of my life.
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