It’s not my party but I’ll still cry if I want to

When the boys were away, I thought it the perfect opportunity to hit the town in a way I hadn’t for a looooooooong time. A friend was moving to another city, and I’d already planned to pop in to say goodbye. Instead, the boy’s trip meant that I could actually make a night of it. Dinner, drinks, drinks and then hopefully, some more drinks.

Well pre-dinner drinks and dinner were lovely. Just four girlfriends sitting around chuckling about the sweet earnestness of the waitress, comparing nail colours, counselling about the protocol of gay blind dates, lamenting our family situations, laughing, scrambling to get each other’s most recent TV/podcast/film/boy/job/life recommendations, eating spectacular sushi, missing absent friends and DRINKING.

We made our way to the party after a brilliant meal and that’s when things kinda started heading a slippery slope downhill. I’m very fond of the friend leaving town. We’re not close but he’s extremely funny, kind and smart and I genuinely love the time I do get to spend with him. He’s unpretentious but scary clever and pretty artistic so I guess I wasn’t surprised to walk into a room of hopeful artists, writers, muscians and wanna-be depressos. I wasn’t fazed. I had my friends. We were still drinking champagne. Fine.

Well, not really. See, drinking anymore than my standard 2 glasses was something very foreign and I’m not sure my body was really in coping mode so things started getting pretty hazy as soon as I someone bought me another drink. My now absent drinking ability really is such a shame. My friends  probably share drinking more than anything else in common. I’m lucky that they are also very smart, funny, warm and kind but we definitely bonded over our shared enjoyment of debauchery.

Anyway, things started sliding pretty damn fast into crap when I got stuck with a black-lycra-clad mistress, rolling her kohl rimmed eyes (didn’t that trend go out almost 40 years ago now?!) lamenting the fact she wasn’t “back in Paris”. Not just “in Paris” but “back” there, giving me no other place to go (I trust me, my quick mental exploration of other avenues was comprehensive) other than, “oh, when were you there?” OH MY GOD, possibly the world’s most boring, self-indulget, wanky, only-in-a-film-script, one-side conversation ensued. Yes she lurved Paris, her children were divine (she was a nanny but that was said in a whisper), her family was special, ‘they’ moved around Europe but ‘they’ loved Paris best, yes she enjoyed many lovers of both sex (really, who-the-goodamn cares about that stuff these days: just say lovers plural), yes she learnt to read Proust in French blah-blah-blah-blah.

I was ready to go home. She clearly found me as boring as I found her because I didn’t say much (she hadn’t noticed I’d fallen asleep in my champagne glass) and she managed to find an excuse to leave to ‘find her umbrella’???? Can’t she do better than that – another drink, date, cigarette maybe but UMBRELLA? Hey, that’s just how boring I am.

Anyway, it as all over after that. Bye Bye Birdie – into cab – key in door – onto computer to blog for an hour – into bed: all quite pissed. I’m not going to push myself anytime soon to put those party shoes back on. They don’t fit anymore, at least not in the same way, and I need new ones anyway with a slightly lower heel. I can’t keep up with the young uns anymore who all seem to be moving between Sydney and Paris to my disbelief and strange, quiet envy.

0 Responses to “It’s not my party but I’ll still cry if I want to”

  1. Leave a Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

March 2009

%d bloggers like this: