A Suit of One’s Own

21 Mar


I had to attend a black tie event over the weekend and not having a suit of my own I borrowed one from a family friend. It would come as no surprise then, that at a catered event, with free alcohol, you could find me several hours later vomiting all over my shoes and borrowed trousers. Hungover the following morning, I failed to notice the dried vomit residue and put the suit aside to be dry-cleaned. I figured everything would be so much easier once my brain stopped trying to hammer its way out through my forehead.

* That’s all it takes really, pressure, and time. That, and a big goddamn poster. *

Never having worn a proper dinner suit before I failed to recognise that it was not a dinner suit at all. This wouldn’t really have been much of a problem if it weren’t for the fact that the family friend needed his actual suit (which his mum had mistakenly loaned to me) for a funeral that very day. A funeral that started in half an hour and so was coming round immediately to collect it.

Cut to me sponging the trousers like madman, misting the jacket with cologne to cover the smell of cigarettes and sin and rushing it down to the waiting car. Only to realise as they drove away that I’d stuffed a handful of free condoms in my pocket that they were handing out at the bar the night before. I imagine he found them mid-service while looking for tissues because his eyes were stinging from the lingering smell of bile on his trouser cuff.

* Did you ever wish you could sometimes freeze frame a moment in your day, look at it and say: “This is not my life”? *

In other news it has taken me a total of 6 days to come up with a text message that shuts down communication with Mr. Sheffield in a satisfactory manner. I know text messages are pretty cowardly but to be fair I couldn’t do coffee because he works from 9 – 5 and organising drinks would send the wrong message. Plus I figured 2 dates and a maximum of 7 hours face time probably means I don’t owe him a drawn out and awkward phone call. Right? Right.

So this was what I came up with:

“Hey           sorry I have been a bit distant I’ve been thinking about what I want at the moment and I’d hate for you to think I’m ignoring you. There’s nothing worse. I just wanted to say that I need a bit of time to chill out, I’m just not really ready for anything full on. I hope you understand it has nothing to do with you.”

It’s direct and to the point plus I mention his name so it’s at least semi-personal. I also didn’t try and blame my lack of communication on work etc. I did really struggle with whether I should include some sort of sign off though but they kept coming across as rude and disingenuous.

One of the earlier drafts went a little something like this:

“Hey Broseph Goebbels! Sorry I’ve been a bit shit with replying lately I’ve been super busy with work. You know how it is, people to do places to be. I say who, I say when, I say WHO! Anyway I’d hate to think that I was leading you on and they say treat people how you would like to be treated. So instead of putting you in a bath and serving you wine and soft cheeses I wanted to say that you’re a really lovely guy but I’m not ready for a relationship right now. I hope you understand. You stay classy San Diego!”

Or even earlier:

“If I wanted to spoon feed someone I’d have visited my grandpa – learn to close the deal nerd!” 

Or just:

“You are the sexual equivalent of a million Hinendbergs.”

I get 30 Rock mean under pressure.

Oh and did I mention that my twin sister is celebrating her 3 year anniversary with her boyfriend today? No? Probably because it’s extremely depressing and I hate my life.

Incidentally I was reading an article about China’s push to encourage the one in five “leftover women” between 25 and 29 to marry. An article that likened the cat-loving, bridge playing women of “ugly” or “average appearance” to the undead. Unless my math is particularly bad, one in five is not an average. And average appearance would imply the majority of the female population. Nor does it seem to account for one important factor: That just because their faces are predominately composed of dust and wrinkles and their thighs so full of cellulite that the craters are visible from outer space and that their lady parts are full of cobwebs; It definitely does not mean that they are lonely.

*Happiness isn’t happiness without a violin-playing goat. *

I have subsequently derived a complex formula for measuring the happiness of singletons.

Happiness = Emotional Security Wine Consumed + (Men Slept With × Age)

                          (Income ÷ BMI) + Pair of Shoes Owned – Cup Size

All of which would be combined with % likeness to George Clooney to give a score ranging from 1 to 10. Because lets be honest, male or female, likeness to George Clooney is always a plus.

Eat a dick patriarchy.

I also have discovered a hidden anger towards outdated hand gestures like winding down a window and the call me hand – which I saw some silly woman doing today. Nobody has a flip down phone anymore, pleas stop that. I’d never call you maybe on that Clueless 90’s bullshit. I do however quite enjoy the wanker hand, especially when it’s coupled with the Spiderman web slinging gesture. It’s good to know that unless we become particularly dexterous that it will never really go out of style.

* I’m down, I’ve got the 411, and you are not going out and getting jiggy with some boy, I don’t care how dope his ride is. My momma didn’t raise no foo’! *

Finally I will leave you with an image of me during my newfound core routine. I have found that watching an episode of Will and Grace is the perfect distraction while I do crunches. When the time comes at the end of the episode for an isometric I get to stare at the reflection of my face surrounded by my legs and pretend that some woman with hairy thighs is giving birth to a fat, red faced and sweaty man who looks strangely like me. Talk about motivating.

* We’re the Spice Girls, yes indeed. Just Girl Power is all we need. We know how we got this far…Strength and courage and a Wonderbra! *


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