Clubbing...
Who goes clubbing, anyways?
You know, I went out last night and had a really good time. I danced (Much to the chagrin of those around me). I laughed. I drank. I probably drank too much, as I am known to do now and then. Some guy slipped me a bus pass with a phone number on it that I'm never going to call.
Getting dressed for me was, as it always is, an issue. I hate getting dressed to go anywhere. I'm terrible at getting dressed.
I decided on a black tank top that is cut very well. By cut very well I mean it actually just does a good job of covering up my back fat. I have no shoes that are appropriate for clubbing. So I ended up wearing the old stand-bys: My trusty Docs.
In real life, it is a terrible fashion Faux-Pas to wear Docs to a club. But I did it because really, what else was I supposed to do?
The tank top was also an issue. In case you haven't noticed, it's summer. It's hot. It's sticky. NOT that I'm complaining, but a certain amount of deodorant is required when going out in hot, sticky weather. Being the the fashion-impaired type that I am, not lathering my black tank top with deodorant before I left the house was challenge number one.
Next challenge? Makeup. I'm really bad at makeup. I always look like a ghost, or slightly orange. Then I have to wash it all off and start over, trying to decide where I went wrong and how so as not to make the same mistake again.
I finished up with the makeup and I thought to myself "Day-um, Girl!" Because I felt that I'd gotten it right.
Then I encountered the next problem. I looked in the mirror that we keep on the dining room table (It's there because we can't get it hung on the wall. It makes a nice centrepiece though) and realized that my chest was ghostly white. My arms were nicely tanned and matched the color of my face right up to my shoulders.
It was at this point that I realized I have a farmer's tan.
Now. Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of my farming heritage for sure. I love country culture. I embrace CowTown and all of its inhabitants and all of their quirky habits.
But I do NOT embrace going out to a club wearing Doc Martens and a farmer's tan.
I felt like a fool. I always do when it comes to getting dressed. I wanted to cry, but then I would have smeared my makeup. I wanted to call everyone and say that I'm not going. But because they're my friends they would say things like "Aw, but you look great! You always look great!"
(That's the thing about friends. They can't actually say "Sorry, Dude, you're right. You look like ass and I'd prefer not to be seen with you.")
But you know what? I went. I danced. (Much to the chagrin of those around me.) I laughed. I drank. I probably drank too much, as I am known to do now and then. Some guy slipped me a bus pass with a phone number on it that I'm never going to call.
And I had a really good time.
Toonses
You know, I went out last night and had a really good time. I danced (Much to the chagrin of those around me). I laughed. I drank. I probably drank too much, as I am known to do now and then. Some guy slipped me a bus pass with a phone number on it that I'm never going to call.
Getting dressed for me was, as it always is, an issue. I hate getting dressed to go anywhere. I'm terrible at getting dressed.
I decided on a black tank top that is cut very well. By cut very well I mean it actually just does a good job of covering up my back fat. I have no shoes that are appropriate for clubbing. So I ended up wearing the old stand-bys: My trusty Docs.
In real life, it is a terrible fashion Faux-Pas to wear Docs to a club. But I did it because really, what else was I supposed to do?
The tank top was also an issue. In case you haven't noticed, it's summer. It's hot. It's sticky. NOT that I'm complaining, but a certain amount of deodorant is required when going out in hot, sticky weather. Being the the fashion-impaired type that I am, not lathering my black tank top with deodorant before I left the house was challenge number one.
Next challenge? Makeup. I'm really bad at makeup. I always look like a ghost, or slightly orange. Then I have to wash it all off and start over, trying to decide where I went wrong and how so as not to make the same mistake again.
I finished up with the makeup and I thought to myself "Day-um, Girl!" Because I felt that I'd gotten it right.
Then I encountered the next problem. I looked in the mirror that we keep on the dining room table (It's there because we can't get it hung on the wall. It makes a nice centrepiece though) and realized that my chest was ghostly white. My arms were nicely tanned and matched the color of my face right up to my shoulders.
It was at this point that I realized I have a farmer's tan.
Now. Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of my farming heritage for sure. I love country culture. I embrace CowTown and all of its inhabitants and all of their quirky habits.
But I do NOT embrace going out to a club wearing Doc Martens and a farmer's tan.
I felt like a fool. I always do when it comes to getting dressed. I wanted to cry, but then I would have smeared my makeup. I wanted to call everyone and say that I'm not going. But because they're my friends they would say things like "Aw, but you look great! You always look great!"
(That's the thing about friends. They can't actually say "Sorry, Dude, you're right. You look like ass and I'd prefer not to be seen with you.")
But you know what? I went. I danced. (Much to the chagrin of those around me.) I laughed. I drank. I probably drank too much, as I am known to do now and then. Some guy slipped me a bus pass with a phone number on it that I'm never going to call.
And I had a really good time.
Toonses
posted by Amanda at 16:17
1 Comments:
I'm glad you had a good time! I'll be damned if I just noticed I have a farmer's tan and I'm not on a farmer, go figure! But I haven't been out to a bar for a fun night in a long time and it'll probably be even longer before I do go out again.
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