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

Thursday, 28 October 2010

Gone (Lady) Ga-Ga.

One of the nicer compliments I have received of late was a simple observation.

As I held onto the bannister of the stairs to my apartment complex, trying not to wobble on my fancy heels and watching my long, red lycra-kissed dress cling to the tops of my calves on the way out for jagerbombs cocktails I was told, "You never dress like a slut to go out, do you?"

Urm. No.

It's actually become sort of a conundrum to be honest. On a night out- or, as is more frequent, on the way home from the theatre or the supermarket or Big Gay Cal's house, passing people with a more vicarious appetite for bump n' grind club nites than I have- I notice how much flesh is on show. But it is something I just can't do.

My American friend audibly laughs out loud as we pass them. "Wear a goddamn coat!" she'll say or, "Do British men genuinely find that drunken wobble attractive?" Whether she is talking about their thighs or their inability to stand up right I'm not sure.

But you see it all the time- these are the girls that get the male attention. The ones that think the legs/boobs rule of dressing isn't either/or but a fashion mandate. The orange ones. The ones that have to go to the loo in girl gangs and then proceed to hog the mirror space.

And whilst I am super-aware that I am hardly likely to find my soulmate over conversation (INVERTED COMMAS) held on a sticky floor over the bass notes to a Cheryl Cole remix, making those euphemistic new friends on that rare night out is one of the more exciting things a (well-dressed) girl can do.

After being faux-spanked as her fag's hag on the dancefloor, that is.

But then that's another thing. When I go for a night out, I want to let loose. The girls that pull are the girls that do that knees-together-bottom-swaying-pouty-dancing as their lips lock to a straw stuck in a Bacardi Breezer. If I'm going to have a boogie, you'd better believe that I want jive-talking, Saturday Night Fever, use-the-whole-dancefloor disco moves and quite frankly, it makes a girl sweat. Which apparently isn't the biggest aphrodisiac known to a man. Unless he was the one to induce said sweat. Holla!

(SIDENOTE: I was always taught that, "Horse sweat, Laura, prostitutes perspire, and ladies simply GLOW." To which I have often thought, "Yeah. My arse." Try running four miles with a simple glow.)

So I'm doing a double-fail. I wear too many clothes and I dance like I am actually enjoying myself rather than as if my Primark mini comes with built-in stick for my bum.

And that's two derierres in as many paragraphs.

So. I've been thinking. We all know what Lindsay Lohan said about Halloween in Mean Girls, right? That it is the only night of the year that girls can dress as total sluts and no other girls can say anything about it.

(I can hear my friends yelling in chorus to me, "NOT EVEN YOU, MS JUDGING-OTHERS-IS-MY-FAVOURITE-PASTTIME!")

So this year I am dressing up as Lady Gaga. I have an actual lace leotard which I intend to wear with... nothing. Killer heels. Some hugely controlled support underwear, maybe. I have six Diet Coke cans to wear in my hair.

The reaction I got to this revelation in the House of Pastelle was Oh. My. God. And I was all like, No. Oh. My. Gaga.

(I was going to go as Amy from The Only Way is Essex, but I didn't think Derby would get my irony.)

Whilst on the SLAGHUNT! I was in Debenham's looking for some suspender-style tights and talking to the middle-aged assistant. I wanted a pair that didn't have the seams at the tops of the thighs, you know- the sort that one could wear with a leotard. I was making out to this woman that they were for a dance show or something, and as I held on to a pair of fifteen-denier sheer black things with the seams drawn up the back of the leg I said to her, "But you don't think that they'll look a bit..."

I left the question hanging in the air.

"Slutty?" she replied. "Maybe. Probably. I mean, what about these ones then instead...?" and she led me across to something entirely more suitable from another range. I acted interested for a polite amount of time and then thanked her and told her I was going to have a bit of a think. Then I went back to get the slutty ones. It was the best anti-advice she could've given me. If the middle-aged shop assistant thinks they are cheap and slutty, then I am probably bang on the money. I'll show those super-sluts who the boss is!

(And that's a new entry in the 101 things you never expect to write in a blog post, "I'll show the super-sluts who the boss is.")

Turns out though, this assistant totally had my number. When I was at the till she came up to me and said, "Come back and let me know how your night goes, won't you?" She practically winked at me, too.

Caught red-handed.

I should have just said to her, "On Sunday Night, Matthew, I'm going to be... A SKANKY TART!" She had a glint in her eye like she understood though.

I promise you that even though I'm a tart for the night, I'll still gonna dance like a loon, though. If the Spanx'll let me.
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