So, it's Tuesday and I find myself reflecting on the past weekend. I have to say that it was one of my most stellar displays of composure. Where to begin, where to begin...
In case you didn't pick up on it, I was being sarcastic in the earlier paragraph. This weekend saw a few mishaps on my part. Friday night started out with me trying on...mmm...maybe 10 different outfits over the course of...well...more than 20 minutes. This is all pretty much par for the course when I'm feeling less than my best, but the problem was the fact that there was a witness to my chaotic madness. Thank god for a previously unseen episode of Deadliest Catch, without which I just might be single again today. I'm not entirely sure my regular interruptions of, "Does this look OK? But no really, does it? But does it look better or worse than the other one?" were as quickly forgotten as they appear to have been. So anyway, finally clothed, we set out for dinner. By the time we got to Dupont, it was already 11:00 and not many places were still serving dinner. Finally, an open AND acceptable establishment. Cut to me being flirty, then somehow managing to get a crushed pepper flake in my eye. Burning. Intense burning. Makeup smearing. I ran to the bathroom only to spend 10 minutes flushing out not only the pepper but also my eye makeup. Great - it looks like I was at the makeup counter at Nordstrom's and they decided to only do one side of my face because I didn't want to buy anything. Shit.
So, I lived through dinner only to exit the restaurant and proceed directly to getting my high heel stuck in a subway grate. And I mean pretty stuck. Every time I put on a pair of heels I seem to become less of a lady. The last time I wore them I almost fell down as we were being seated in a Mexican restaurant, and those were like 1/4 inch heels! I felt like everybody was looking at me, apparently because they were...
Those high points aside, I'd say that Saturday night was pretty much the spotlight night. It all started out perfectly fine. Perfectly great, in fact. Chinese takeout during a thunderstorm. The history channel. Good times. Cut to me getting ready in 20 minutes with only one attempt at an outfit change as we were heading out the door, and even that was thwarted by a newly vocal boyfriend. Success! I was sure it was going to be a great night. I'd even worn my hair curly in anticipation of the humidity from the rainstorm. What I didn't do was put my umbrella in my already-overflowing purse, since there wasn't much room for it among my wallet, lipstick and entire Sunday outfit. I'll spare you the details of the walk there, and just tell you that as the rain fell it created in me a directly proportional ratio of rain to annoyance. This annoyance wasn't directed at anyone or anything in particular, but instead found solace in just being voiced. Naturally, this perplexed the emotionally stable human being I was walking with. We finally reach the lounge/bar/club, only to realize there weren't any tables available. Like the rain before it, this produced in me an irrational sense of upset. Cut to me bursting into tears outside the club. Yikes.
So, VERY fortunately for me, my bewildered boyfriend recognized that I wasn't being myself and somehow understood that I was the sad victim of a vicious hormonal attack brought on my the makers of a certain product that shall remain nameless but shall be inherently understood by all who read this.
Cut to us having an amazing time in the next open bar we came to. This was mostly his doing, as nobody has the ability to cheer me up the way he does. I'll close with my final faux pas of the weekend (more like final faux pas of the evening because Sunday is still the weekend and I'm sure I did at least one embarrassing thing on Sunday but nothing is coming to mind at this moment). So we leave the bar and start walking home, and he suddenly exclaims that he's going to pick me a rose from behind the gates of a front yard we're passing by. He hands me his lit cigarette so that he is free to snag the flower. It comes into my mind that I might look pretty cool taking a casual drag off his cigarette. So, I do just that. Of course, I wait for him to look up. Then I slowly inhale. 'Not bad, it's going OK' I think to myself. And then I stop inhaling...and start coughing and hacking like I'm trying to get rid of a lung. He bursts into laughter and I, in desperate need of life-giving water, decide to just give up and face the fact that it's just not my weekend to be smooth and seductive. Somehow though, life still seems sweet.
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