Gin and Thickening Skin

Last night I attended a very casual fashion show downtown at one of our fairly classy local martini bars with one of my best friends and about six women from my old place of employment, none of whom I really knew. I sat on a velvety couch with them around a metal lamp shaped like a martini, complete with a plastic green olive as big as my head and a glowing pimento, atop a glass-covered, claw-foot bathtub for a table. I ordered some New Zealand sauvignon blanc and was just beginning to enjoy its gentle bite on my tongue when the intelligence level of our party became painfully apparent.

The young woman to my left looked out the window at her friend sitting outside at a metal bistro table and began commenting on her attire--a cute, more formal tank top situation with pink, white, and black blocks of color and a chunky necklace of large, white beads that reminded me a bit of something Wilma Flintstone would wear. As I looked around at the 20-something set, most of the girls were wearing accessories like this in various colors.

"Ohmigod! Just LOOK at her! She looks like a clown! When she wore that outfit when we went to Vegas, I told her to get out of way when I took a fucking picture! She looks like SUCH a RETARD! I mean, that outfit is just so RETARDED! I would never wear that because I would look like a RETARD!"

She used that horrible word at least three times in rapid succession, and I winced each time she said it with gusto. I kept my lips firmly pressed together unless I was allowing a trickle of wine to flow between them. I also glanced at the ceiling for the hidden camera.

Nope, no Allen Funt.

I began to think to myself that perhaps my lovely, slightly tart white wine wasn't a good choice. Perhaps I should have chosen gin after all. My mood began to cloud with swirls of surliness. This was a great reminder about why my friends are either from years ago or male with very few exceptions. The cell phone belonging to the male friend I attended the event with began humming away with catty text messages apparently regarding my presence from the young lady sitting across from me. My patience was now in extremely short supply. Thankfully, I was not bored. The model familiar with our group became progressively more intoxicated and amusingly unstable in her wedge heels with each outfit she showcased, seemingly unable to resist the call of the complimentary lemon drops from the bar, and she began touching me excessively, shaking her Davis Brand jeans-upholstered posterior in my face. I glanced at her expensive backside, smiled politely at her when she looked back over her shoulder, and ordered an additional glass of wine.

Ohmigod.