I’m not here to judge, but as I’m here, I may as well!

Just to get an awkward apology out of the way before I start, it has come to my attention after writing last week’s post that I used to have a gym related conscience (who I will refer to as Gym Bunny), and I fear that she may have been upset by my writing about Jiminy Cricket, and the implication that Jiminy is the first friend who has acted as my conscience.  She’s not, and when Gym Bunny was my fitness guru, I was actually in the best shape of my life.  She was amazing, and I’m sorry that I’ve sullied the memories of that time for her. 

Moving swiftly on from the uncomfortableness, I had a night out with my lovely chums this week.  Normally going out with friends probably wouldn’t count as a major event, but it was the first time that we’d been out together in about a year.  Not because we had a huge falling out (ok, not because we’d ALL had a huge falling out), but mainly because life has a habit of getting in the way of social lives.  Especially when life involves various children, jobs, and other halves.  Or people double booking themselves.  (You know who you are.)

 Usually, I spend a few hours looking for an outfit to wear, before spending a silly amount of money on, if I’m honest, a dress that looks pretty similar to the 642 that I already own (‘but this one has a sparkly bit on the left shoulder, the one that you’re thinking of has a sparkly bit on both shoulders.  I can’t believe you don’t pay attention to what I own’…etc., etc.) but this time I had to have a good root through my wardrobe.  At The Clothes Show back in December, I bought a lovely black dress with chiffon sleeves in a size 12 (I was being optimistic).  I tried it on earlier in the week and it looked nice, I took it into work and my lovely colleagues liked it (one liked it a little bit too much, and I was lucky to get it back  again – we nearly had to cut it in half and keep half each.  In the end I had to offer her a timeshare on it, and now live in hope that she forgets about it before her next night out), and it was agreed that I should wear it.  I’m not entirely sure what happened, as I haven’t eaten a freezer full of Magnums/16 KitKat Chunkies/my entire family, but when I put the dress on, it struggled slightly more to get over my chest, and ended up a bit shorter than it had been on Tuesday.  Swallowing my nerves, I asked my Darling Sister (who’s a bit of an authority on fashion), whether she thought it was too short.  Her eyes bulged a bit, and she suggested that I wore tights (when Darling Sister tells you that something’s a bit short, she means that you’d probably get arrested).  So I grabbed some purple tights, and hoped that the fact that I’d had a complete hair restyle earlier in the day would distract people from the fact that they could probably see my pants if they looked hard enough.  (It looked amazing when my hairdresser did it, because she’s brilliant, but I don’t have her patience or flair, and I’m a bit worried that I now look like a redheaded Tina Turner.)

Turns out that I shouldn’t have worried, because my skirt turned out to be one of the longer ones of the night.  And I don’t want to judge, I really don’t – I know that I’m no size 8 beauty myself,  (Funny side story – a couple of years ago, I got into a bit of an argument with a friend of a friend.  Because she’s evil.  The best insult that she could come up with was to call me a fat cow.  Apparently she wasn’t aware that I do look in the mirror, and could have come to that conclusion myself.  But I’m over it.  The horse-faced tramp.)  but if you’re a bigger girl, please, please, please, don’t assume that you can dress in the same way as your teeny tiny friends and  look gorgeous.  Body-con skirts are not kind to you.  Nor are tops 2 sizes too small – I see what you were trying to do, you thought that it would give a ‘spilling forth’ look to your breasts.  It doesn’t.  It gives you a ‘spilling forth’ look everywhere.  People are not looking at you with admiration in their eyes, that’s pity.  Or perhaps revulsion.  So perhaps that self-confident hip wiggle (sending peoples drinks flying) as you walk through the bar is misplaced.  Not that I’m thinking of anyone in particular…

I don’t want to name the place that we graced with our presence last night (mainly because if anyone reads this and recognises themselves, I will be kicked a lot- it’s that sort of place), so I’ll just say that it’s the largest town in the county.  And it’s horrible.  The next time that you watch Jeremy Kyle, you can probably go ahead and assume that they’ve cast the whole show with people from my town.  The boys fight, then the girlfriends of the boys fight, then the boyfriends of the girlfriends friends fight, then someone who was standing nearby gets a drink spilt on their foot, so their friends step in…it’s something very special.  Last night, there were 4 fights whilst I was out, (and, I’m reliably informed, a fifth and sixth pretty much as soon as I left) for no reason other than an accidental brushing past to get to the bar/toilet/quiz machine.  I can only blame the fact that there is 1 dance floor in the whole of the town, and everyone tends to congregate in the same pub at the end of the night to have a dance/grinding session.  Apparently the bouncers feel that the term ‘crowd control’ means ‘shove as many people in as possible.  It’ll be fine.’  It’s never fine.

As for the women in their mid-forties using their friends as poles?  Please stop.  I don’t want to see you grinding on each other.  I’m all for you going out and having a ruddy good time, but I don’t need to see your ‘flower’.  Ever.  Actually, never mind women in their mid-forties, please can all women take note – I don’t want to see any of you grinding on each other.  You are not auditioning for a lapdancing club, and you make me feel a bit sick and sad.  If you do happen to attract a man in this way (and why else would you dance like that, unless it’s for attention), I can say with near-certainty that he will not be Mr. Right.  Mr. Just For Tonight, yes, and if that’s what you want then fair play, but I just think that it looks a bit desperate and undignified. 

And a final thought, to those boys who just have to get involved when something’s kicking off – you’re my age.  Grow up.  (I know you’re an immature fool, you know that you’re an immature fool, my friends know that you’re an immature fool, but there’s always the chance that you might meet some people that aren’t aware of this fact.  Let’s not disillusion them straight away.)

On another note, I decided to buy some fake tan from Boots in order to jazz up my legs (before I was guided towards the purple tights), and I fell over, right in the middle of the haircare aisle.  My knees were scraped, and my pride battered.  I was wearing shoes with heels that clicked as I walked (you know, the sort that you really, really want when you’re about 5) and everyone must have heard me tap-tapping along, stopping suddenly, and starting again, in a much more sedate fashion.  I’m not saying that Jiminy was involved (unless she’d had a word with the Weather Fairy and asked it to rain heavily, but apparently they’re not as close as they used to be), but she did send me a text message along the lines of ‘serves you right’ when I told her.  Rude.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Cheree Mathews
    Mar 04, 2011 @ 11:14:09

    This was the best one so far…. I laughed out so loud that the girls in the office wanted to know what i was doing (apologies for not working…. opps!) but they now have the link to read too.

    Keep Writing them I bloody love them :0) xx


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