|
sunshine jen: Singles Schmingles
Before I jump into this post, I just have to tell you all about the back up tape on the server in an office I work in. It recently has gotten itself possessed, and the tape keeps spooling back and forth. This morning, I realized that it sounds like a robot snoring. I've always wondered what a robot snoring sounds like. Now, I know. Moving on. . .
My friend Charli lives in Sydney. You might see her in the comment field occasionally. She was also the one who took me dragonboating when I was down below.
Charli, in her quest to try something new, recently went a singles night at a bar in Sydney. She had never been to one before and probably will never go to one again. Anyway, her writing on it made me laugh (out loud). So here's Charli.
Hey Jen,
Well, the singles schmingles night was dreadful! I went with a couple of friends and felt like one of the youngest in the room. Yes, it was 30+ but there were some bloody scary fake blondes (aka SFBs) in there, every one of them pushing 50 and wearing skimpy tight dresses their daughters would be nervous about. What is it about women of that age? They get fiercely determined not to get left on the shelf (previously married or not), spend hours and tons of money at gyms and beauty salons, with the sole aim of hunting down some poor sod who won't stand a chance. They all look the bloody same!! Krystle Carrington has a lot to answer for.
There must be a fierce blonde granny factory out there somewhere. Honestly, Jen, I know they should be happy and confident about their bodies, but really, a saggy butt encased in a tight red jersey dress - even I know my limitations!!
Anyway, that was the SFBs. Another group (that also encompassed the SFBs) was the Dancing With The Stars group (as in the TV show where celebrities dance with professionals and usually make a complete ass of
themselves). You know the ones - they've gone to dance lessons in an attempt to meet people, then piss off everyone else at every function thereafter by launching into the whole Fred & Ginger routine, heedless of anyone else who might like space on the dance floor or at least the wish to keep their head intact. There was lifting, there was spinning, there was flinging of hair in wild abandon. Fine if you're young and hot, like a young Antonio Banderas, but not so fine when you're 50, slightly balding, sucking your gut in the whole time and strutting around like you've got a pickle up your bum.
And there was the group huddled around the buffet (mostly boring stuff like fruit and veggies for dipping, obviously aimed at the low-cholesterol crowd), who would furtively squirrel away more snacks while pretending to not be there for the food. There were so many of them, I had to fight to grab the single bit of cheese I could spot. They were like the geeks at the school dance, except now they stood by the food instead of sitting around the edge of the dance. OK, I was a geek at school but I was never a sitter-outer - I was usually making an idiot of myself to make my fellow-geek friends laugh.
And of course, there was the collection of motley toupees lined up along the bar, watching it all and pretending they weren't really there for a singles night.
I started off being lady-like with a glass of bubbly, thinking I really should make an effort. After an hour, I was back on the Strongbow from the bottle. There was no way I stood any kind of chance against the SFBs and the dancers. And the only bloke who ventured in my direction had a very bizarre facial expression to match his very peculiar hairpiece. He stood next to me for a while. I could feel the desperation vibes emanating, and I realized that I wasn't THAT desperate. He wandered off eventually, to my great relief.
Then I had my freakout. It hit me like a ton of bricks that I was not the sort of person who does singles nights - it's just not in my genes. I couldn't bring myself to install the fixed grin, much less the gallons of hairspray and I certainly couldn't make myself amenable to the equally-desperate men and their toupees. I may be nearly 40 (in 6 weeks, in fact!) but I'm just not that OLD!!
It felt like every man who looked at me was checking me up as potential, while every woman was sizing me out as competition. I was being discounted as no threat by SFBs a whole generation above me (well, nearly a whole one). I started to panic, heart beating like mad as I wondered how I could make a dash for the door. Ruth (one of my friends) said I looked like a deer in the headlights. All I could think of was how I didn't fit in, how I wanted to escape. An evening of Goths would be more my scene, where we'd all wear black and sit talking about morbid stuff. At least there'd be some philosophical discussion involved, rather than inane banter and preening.
Several large swigs of cider later, I calmed down. We went out to the deck for a while, deciding that our efforts to impress were really not required. Before we left, Ruth and I decided to make the most of the music (old but danceable) and shook our tailfeathers for a few songs. We agreed that we really must go out dancing more often!
Quick cab ride to the kebab shop opposite the Sackville, good kebab and post mortem discussion. Bottom line: I am NOT a singles night person! I'd rather spend the $20 entry fee on another round of drinks for people I actually like. And who don't wear bad toupees.
Love, Charli
|
|
|
