Someone alert hospice care, I’ve lost my dignity.
I knew things were getting bad when I mistook my reflection for Jane Fonda before leaving the apartment last night. I thought, ‘no matter Ry, this is part of the character. Part of the girl named Rachel you’ve decided to portray to anyone who approaches you tonight’.
This, evidently, is my idea of a good time.
Rachel, the aspiring actress/waitress who couldn’t wait to ‘understand’ British culture. Rachel of the no IQ. Rachel, the blonde girl with a propensity for hair twirling, loud giggling, and repeatedly asking: “wait, what does that mean?”. Rachel, traveling Europe with her oldest and longest friend.
Loyally at my side, Man_Shopper too had chosen a persona.
Kayti the Starbucks barista. Kayti with the chip on her shoulder. Kayti the indy girl full of Ani references and eye-rolling. Kayti, Miss too-cool-for-school. Kayti from Boston, traveling with her oldest friend-despite said friend’s irritating qualities.
She looked like a rock chick.
I looked like an 80s escort.
Seriously, I even had leg warmers.
Granted, I had voluntarily clad myself in 80’s attire for the evening, so it’s not like there’s anyone else to blame here.
Blasting Pump up the Jam (full with video-courtesy of youtube), she and I took our time getting ready. Hair, make-up, and jewellery choices were all discussed at length.
When we got it perfect, it was time to go.
Bellies full of sandwiches, make-up piled on faces, Kayti and I headed off to Camden town with a mission.
I desperately wanted to make a man wake up the following morning and say to himself:
“Dear holy God, I think that was the dumbest girl on the planet. Cardboard brains. How in the name of Manchester United was I able to stand the conversation?”
I vowed not to break character. No sarcasm would pass through my thick lipstick. No sir.
Man_Shopper wanted to research how differently men would react to her if she were someone else. She has a dating blog, so this was a prime opportunity to play a different part.
I didn’t have a cool excuse. I just love to play.
So off we went.
It never once occurred to me that no one would approach us. My narcissim is too great for such a thought to enter my brain.
That is what happened.
Operation Hot Sister was an EPIC FAILURE BECAUSE NO MAN APPROACHED US, LOOKED AT US, OR DID SO MUCH AS NOD IN OUR DIRECTION. ALL-CAPS USE TO EMPHASIZE THE HUMILIATION OF REALIZING ONE HAS LOST ONES MOJO.
No characters. No conversation. No free drinks. No eye-flirting. No. Anything.
Just the two of us idiots, tequila shots, and late-night sandwiches.
The longest conversation we had with any man was at Subway when we ordered foot-longs to devour our sorrows.
So that’s it.
Ladies and gentlemen, we no longer turn heads.
I’m sure there’s an argument for karma somewhere in all of this nonsense. Just as soon as my ego recovers, it’ll warrant further investigation.
One things for certain though. Tomorrow, I’m gonna wear the sexy tight pants I bought today to make myself feel better.
Zilla down bloggers, Zilla down.
If you want her version of the events, click here please.