Goodness.
Life is indeed an amusement park and
self-esteem is a permanent passenger on the rollercoaster.
Am very happy with comment from
extremely gorgeous glamorous shop chick that I look very Tom Ford.
Am therefore loving @gorgeous_glamour_shop_chick.
Loving her so much, in fact, that I let
her talk me into buying a $4,000 suit.
Although if I really were Tom Ford I
could have whipped it up myself at home on the Janome.
And if I really were Tom Ford presumably
my Visa card would not have been so rudely declined.
Yes declined.
Had sneaking suspicion that this may
happen but chose not to say anything.
Acted all surpised.
Just run the card through for half the
amount and then do it immediately again for the second half, I suggest.
This
has worked for me in the past.
But not quite for this amount.
Despite my enthusiasm in making this
suggestion I have no real faith in the success of this idea.
Still declined.
Don’t worry, says @gorgeous_glamour_
shop_chick.
Happens all the time.
Electronic terminal just says declined
when line is busy.
We’ll just do it the old fashioned way.
Actually call up.
As she dials the number I notice a
totally fuck-off diamond ring and wonder if she has spunky husband.
Still declined.
REALLY want the suit now.
And am REALLY embarrassed.
Do some quick telephone banking.
@gorgeous_glamour_shop_chick reiterates
Tom Ford comment.
Possibly in attempt to alleviate
decline- embarrassment: it’s ok that you’re poor – you look like a rich and
famous person.
Try again.
Transaction approved.
Very happy.
Thanks so much.
And you know what, says @gorgeous_
glamour_shop_chick, when my husband and I were in Aspen we were right next to
Tom Ford in the ski-lift queue.
Now I know she has a spunky husband.
And you know what, she says, Tom Ford’s
really short too.
Yeah thanks.
Rush home and spend next 4 hours trying
on suit with every t-shirt, shirt, tie and shoe that I own.
Parade around apartment on my own.
Checking each outfit in all 3 mirrors.
Am most happy with outcomes. Do not want
to remove suit.
Should go to gym but that would involve
removal of suit.
Decide to eat instead.
Prepare meal, while still wearing suit.
Eat meal in front of telly.
Still wearing suit.
Immediately upon completion of meal have
guilt attack at not going to gym.
Suddenly feel extremely fat in suit.
Spend next half hour in front of mirror
as body transforms before my very eyes.
Suddenly hate suit as it has amazingly
become 3 sizes too small.
Must go out to homosexual venue and
reassert attractiveness.
But not in suit.
Put on old jeans and baggy t-shirt and
wonder where a daggy fat man can find sex on a Saturday night.
The Shift.
It was pumping.
And the corwd wasn’t too bad.
And lucky they were pissed.
Because I could tell they thought I
wasn’t too bad either.
Especially the debonair Italian man I
met in the bathroom.
Clearly he found me neither daggy nor
fat.
Said I looked like George Michael.
I’m presuming he meant then, not now.
For I took it as a compliment.
And he clearly intended it as such for
he remained tightly by my side for the rest of the night.
Am very happy with George Michael and
Tom Ford in the one day.
Was not to everyone’s liking though, I’m
afraid to say.
Was having a crazy little boogie.
Dancefloor a little too crowded for my
liking.
Rhythmless couple apparently joined at
the hip are invading my space, so I decide to do the elbow shove disguised as
exuberant dance move.
Doesn’t work.
They become separated and one of them
nearly falls over.
Oh sorry, I say, hoping that shove is
still indistinguishable from exuberant dance move.
Apparently not.
Sorry clearly not enough.
Well thank you, says one of them.
Who the hell do you think you are?
You have just ruined my night.
Ruined.
A little extreme methinks.
I’m really sorry. (Get off the crystal,
doll!)
And look at you, he says.
Look at your face.
You are so ugly.
Amazement.
And you’re short, he continues.
As though I didn’t know.
And you’re bald.
That’s a bit of a stretch.
Tell him he shouldn’t have been dancing so
badly in my personal space.
He goes to slap me.
I kid you not.
Tries to bitch slap me.
I duck and he misses.
Advantage short man.
Grab @debonair_itailian and sashay
through crowd to other side of dancefloor.
I can cope with short comment.
Even the bald comment.
Am a tad rocked by ugliness comment
though.
So ugly.
@debonair_italian assures me I am not
ugly.
Many times.
I keep asking.
Eventually he takes me home and confirms
that he doesn’t think me ugly.
‘Cause there is no way you could do what
he did to anybody you thought was ugly.
Spend all Sunday with @debonair_italian.
Molto happy with that little turn of
events.
Go to work this morning.
Wearing new suit.
Feeling fabulous, although perhaps a
little overdressed.
Also felt a little pale as all Sunday
activities with @debonair_Italian took place indoors.
So pop in to solarium for a sneaky
little sunbed on way home from work.
Bronzed man at counter doesn’t recognise
me at first.
Proclaims I have changed my look. Says I
look like somebody famous but he can’t think who.
Well, I say, I was told both Tom Ford
and George Michael on the weekend.
Yes, he concurs. Yes!
You’re a little bit Tom AND a little bit
George.
You know, he continues, if Tom Ford and
George Michael were to have a son, he’d look just like you.
Extremely happy
with that comment.
What the hell, go the 12 minute standup.
Not sure that was such a good idea.
I am no longer George Michael.
Or Tom Ford.
Am now George Hamilton.
Must go and moisturise.
@urban_homo_dna
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