Lately I've been on a bit of a rampage. Every single time I scrape up the will to write, something has dragged me away from finishing the post (that something usually involves a pitcher of sangria and a pair of show stopping heels). You guys have missed out on glimmering posts of literary genius, including my near death run-in with Beliebers and a particularly heinous shopping spree (it was glorious in my eyes, not so much to MasterCard).The absence of my humour and wit has likely laid heavy on your hearts.
Let me explain something quickly before I get a plethora of anonymous tipped phone calls to AA, or anything of the like. I like to go out, but it is not the bread and butter of my existence. I'm not a 'club kid', I don't do any (illicit) drugs and I spend a good chunk of my free time like most of you probably do - browsing the internet and trying to find a comfortable way to rest my iPad on my boobs while laying in bed. It's a hard knock life.
The tricky thing about my current state of 'I literally have had to repeat outfits because I have nothing left to wear out that hasn't been seen yet' is that there are several components blending together to create the perfect storm of debauchery:
Let me explain something quickly before I get a plethora of anonymous tipped phone calls to AA, or anything of the like. I like to go out, but it is not the bread and butter of my existence. I'm not a 'club kid', I don't do any (illicit) drugs and I spend a good chunk of my free time like most of you probably do - browsing the internet and trying to find a comfortable way to rest my iPad on my boobs while laying in bed. It's a hard knock life.
The tricky thing about my current state of 'I literally have had to repeat outfits because I have nothing left to wear out that hasn't been seen yet' is that there are several components blending together to create the perfect storm of debauchery:
- I am single (no pity party necessary, thank you)
- I live smack dab in the middle of a metropolitan area that specifically caters to young, pretty things looking for adventure.
- It is summer. I have fabulous legs that need to be seen by the general public in a variety of skirts, dresses and satin-y shorts (my current MO).
- There are patios everywhere.
- There are rooftop bars everywhere.
- The wine is ever flowing, and I rarely have to pay for my own drink.
- I've never been the kind of girl to say no to a fun time. Such is the curse of a spontaneous, 'say yes to everything' attitude.
All that being disclosed, I really, really should not be going out 4-5 times a week (probably).
I know I'm conducting myself to an excess, but I really feel repelled by the idea of sitting home alone in sweatpants eating a tub of ice cream and watching TV. I did that ad nauseum in high school, being of the supreme nerd/smart ass/too tall for high school boys variety, and I'm over the homely life. I've also overcome my insecurities of being too smart and too tall, but those revelations belong in their own over-glorified blog post. Aren’t all you readers a lucky bunch!
The ways I've liked to justify my allergy to the enclosures of my home have varied- a spectrum of 'I don't want to make my bed for a week straight' to 'how many nights can I re-use my very indelible eyeliner before people think I'm starting a cover band?', and a personal favourite of mine - 'I don't want to do groceries this month'. These are just a selection of moments where I feel as though I’m beginning to let myself go. Then I remember that is what my 40’s will be for. (From the age of 52 to my impending demise, I shall try to channel a mixture of Blythe Danner and Helen Mirren. Yes, I have a timeline of my aging process idyllically mapped out.)
I must remind myself that I am in my prime, likely never again able to gracefully manage this kind of stamina. So, as a natural conclusion, the only sensible thing is to relish the moments of absolute irresponsibility and lunacy of my lifestyle. I’d use a particularly heinous acronym in this instance, but I’m better than that and your eyes do not deserve to be scorched upon entry here.
I know I'm conducting myself to an excess, but I really feel repelled by the idea of sitting home alone in sweatpants eating a tub of ice cream and watching TV. I did that ad nauseum in high school, being of the supreme nerd/smart ass/too tall for high school boys variety, and I'm over the homely life. I've also overcome my insecurities of being too smart and too tall, but those revelations belong in their own over-glorified blog post. Aren’t all you readers a lucky bunch!
The ways I've liked to justify my allergy to the enclosures of my home have varied- a spectrum of 'I don't want to make my bed for a week straight' to 'how many nights can I re-use my very indelible eyeliner before people think I'm starting a cover band?', and a personal favourite of mine - 'I don't want to do groceries this month'. These are just a selection of moments where I feel as though I’m beginning to let myself go. Then I remember that is what my 40’s will be for. (From the age of 52 to my impending demise, I shall try to channel a mixture of Blythe Danner and Helen Mirren. Yes, I have a timeline of my aging process idyllically mapped out.)
I must remind myself that I am in my prime, likely never again able to gracefully manage this kind of stamina. So, as a natural conclusion, the only sensible thing is to relish the moments of absolute irresponsibility and lunacy of my lifestyle. I’d use a particularly heinous acronym in this instance, but I’m better than that and your eyes do not deserve to be scorched upon entry here.
A small request: I only ask that nobody disclose this revelation to my mother, as I am relying on her graceful aging process for my future self. No use spoiling it with stress-induced wrinkles and sleepless nights.
champagne kisses and VIP lounge passes,
Nicole xo
champagne kisses and VIP lounge passes,
Nicole xo
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