I’ve noticed a sort of pattern in my life as of late. I never seem to have a normal, casual social life. I’m either hitting up 3 or 4 bars with several different groups of friends or I’m sitting in my bed, watching Netflix and posting multiple Facebook statuses about my cats. Where is the happy medium? It’s lost among hangovers, homework and alarm clocks, that’s where.

Last Friday I begrudgingly tore myself away from my slippers and trudged downtown in my favorite yellow booties. It’s quite a transition going from grungy slippers to 5-inch spikes, but hey…my ankle isn’t going to sprain itself. I met up with one of my favorite bar-buddies to have a beer at a place we never go. Two sips in, I remembered why we didn’t go there. Dude-bros filled the scant standing area surrounding the bar like a douchey tidal wave and I drowned in bedazzled denim. Soon, the air responded in kind and reverberated with the “boom-ch-boom-ch” of the worst club music you could imagine. Was I in a club? You might ask. No. I was in a Tavern/restaurant. You can imagine my confusion. Once I was finally able to get the attention of the miniature blonde bartender, she turned her dimpled back to me and grabbed my tab. I furiously signed and got the hell out of there before I could find out if Nickelback fandom was contagious.

Somewhere in the excitement and Affliction aftermath I lost my friends but found a new one. He and I set off down the street, with me carefully hobbling over the treacherous bricks in my heels, to visit a presumably less douchey bar. That night was a particularly bad night for non-douche bars, however, since apparently local arena football brings out all kinds. We cut our losses and flounced to my favorite karaoke gay bar instead. Ah…peace at last. When friend number two had to leave me and head home to his boyfriend, I contacted the Lesbian Legion to see what shenanigans they were up to that evening. Of course, more than a few were out and about on the strip. After walking what was a couple of miles at that point, I started to reconsider my choice of footwear. It was too late to do anything though, and I’d rather look fabulous than feel my feet the next day so I marched on, hiding my limp with a strut. Or so I told myself, anyway. The Lesbian Legion wanted to hit yet another bar, my fifth of the evening, and dragged me along for the ride. Much to my chagrin, there was dancing involved. I can’t say no to dancing and my feet were seconds from falling off of my body. Just detaching and heading home without me. So close. I tried to slyly take them off to dance (my shoes, not my feet) but the bearded bouncer stopped me within seconds. He’s good. He’s seen white-girl-wasted before. Finally, when the bar was closed and we were all but pushed out the door, I was able to remove the wretched spikes and walk home in my tights. Not before stopping to say hello to the most famous homeless man in town, however. Bra Man says “what’s up”.

Saturday and Sunday were spent laying in bed, watching movies on Netflix and musing about my cats on Facebook. I posted two pictures and a number of statuses about things they were playing with, eating and/or how they were sleeping. I’m that lady. Make no mistake, blogosphere. It takes me at least two days of cat-statuses to recuperate from a night on the town with my friends. I can strut/limp all I want and throw back shots like a cool chick, but you’ll know that for the next two days I will indeed be wearing hideous pajamas, not showering and expecting answers in cat-conversations.

Please enjoy this picture of my cats sleeping:

It’s Lazy Sunday, yo!


2 thoughts on “Polarity

  1. daria says:

    extended recovery time after a night out means that we’ve reached that “too old to party like we’re 22” stage… huh? damn that blows.

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