There is no bigger ego boost than strutting down Michigan Avenue and getting whistled at by a 300 pound 13 year old boy.
I am glowing.
I felt a bit saucy this morning. I am chalking it up to the balmy temperatures (that I have been told are surely going to plummet by mid-afternoon). It is one of those days where the wind has lost its bite and all it is doing is serving to make it seem like you have just emerged from a very sexy wind tunnel. As I repeatedly plucked my hair out of my lip gloss this morning, I came to realize that's it. It is over. I have spring feva! I am wearing a very spring-like outfit, that I will surely be lamenting during my 5pm walk to the L. Everyone will be decked out in their winter finery, and I'll be stuck prancing around like some godless tart in knee-high boots and mini skirt. At least my legs are veeeeeery tan. My only saving grace.
People at work are used to seeing my in a sweatshirt and the same pair of meticulously stretched-out Abercrombie jeans. They are always a bit thrown off when I decide to slut it up.
"Oooh, hot date?" they muse.
"Um, no. I just needed the ego boost of a rubenesque 13 year old to make my day. Sorry for the confusion."
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I am going to head off to happy hour today. Why are those two words so magical? Well, let's break it down...
"Happy" implies that during said hour, events that will occur will be of a pleasant nature. In this case, that means the 5:30pm consumption of alcohol, but more specifically in my case, all-you-can-drink beer and free pizza for $10. This is becoming somewhat of a ritual, which is disturbing since everytime I have participated in a happy hour (and believe me, it goes on for about 4 or 5 hours, not just one) I have either ended up on top of a Golden Tee machine or woken up in my knee high boots. But I digress. Getting back to the magic... there is something about being one of the first people in a bar that you know in a matter of minutes will be filled to capacity. Not waiting in line. Staking your claim at any one of numerous tables. Actually being able to rely on a waitress to bring forth the barley and the hopps instead of sending a delegate to the over-populated and under-staffed bar to procure the next highly anticipated round.
Ok, I need to stop talking about drinking. Who here thinks that I talk about drinking to much? Well, I do. So enough. There are many, many other things in my life, such as:
1. I like my job. It's neat.
2. Um...
3. Wait. I love clothes shopping. It is therapy. I never really buy much casual clothing, which forces me to wear the same zip-up and jeans everyday I don't dress up and wear my new, fun clothes to go out to the...
4. FUCK!
I consider myself a reasonably intelligent person. I have great friends. Great job. I do love my life. But it seems just a bit empty and one-sided right now, and with the impending gorgeous weather, I only fear it is going to get worse. But as my animated bear friend says...
What the hay?
I am still in my twenties and until I become the old lady at the club (you know the one, she ain't that old... just a little to old to be at the club) I am going to do as I damn well please. So what if I show up to my ten year reunion (coming to a local hotel ballroom near you SPRING 2005!) alone, with a friend, or on the arm of some 22 year old boy toy that looks pretty but doesn't have much to say. So sue me! I'll be Demi to anyone's Ashton anytime! And to all those out there who have been in my ear, telling me I should be settled down with a family, I say...