T's Blog Point Zero Zero Four
This is how you imagine it...
Sunfilled Sydney summer night.
Girls night out on the agenda.
Heels, dresses and tossled locks.
Tall glasses packed with ice and cocktails being carried over by hot hot bar staff
Dancing the night away with sexy moves and sexier tunes...
But in reality...
Getting ready...
Humidity, hairdryers and long Italian locks do not mix. Hair had to be done in 5min intervals otherwise the sweat pouring from my forehead would drip and run back into the very same hair I had just washed.
The beginning...
A group of girls -instead of sitting seductively on the lounges, legs crossed, flashy high heels - sat with arms outreached and propped outwards, to the side - like you see in cartoons when somebody has two broken arms supported by two metal rods - and needing to fan the dresses from their legs upwards, ever so slightly, to circulate air to spots that desperating needed fanning.
A group of dirty sanchez men, even though they were covered in a cloud of their own stale tobacco haze you could still see their shiny oily heads, even shinier oilier hair and eyes wandering our way.
As the night wore on...
Dancing to hits that were top forty as I was going through puberty.
I do recall there were definately running man moves made.
Poses were struck.
A collection of high heels were turfed in the corner. Hair was now in pony tails or clumped ontop of our heads. And again...sweat - pouring from every pore on our bodies.
Group microphone sing alongs were belted out.
Air guitar was played with a barrier post as a prop.
Possibly a small arguement with the security guard who was a little concerned with me swinging the security post around like I was the new Santana.
Hopscotch! Yes hopscotch was played. Repeatedly! The hop, hop, jump, hop, jump, hop hop and Spin. I now know why my calves were so very sore the next day. I could hardly put my heels down on the ground.
Nights out now, never quite turn out how I expect they will.
It may be the age thing.
It may also be the bad influences around me (Spencer, Bern... Wigz)
However, when will maturity catch up and stop my brain thinking this is the best time in the world and stop me doing these things???
It's bad enough waking up and eventually recalling these images.
It's even worse when you have to relive them through facebook.
But what caps things off is when you have a sweat pimple the size of ones forehead being mistaken for a mosquito bite.
Sunfilled Sydney summer night.
Girls night out on the agenda.
Heels, dresses and tossled locks.
Tall glasses packed with ice and cocktails being carried over by hot hot bar staff
Dancing the night away with sexy moves and sexier tunes...
But in reality...
Getting ready...
Humidity, hairdryers and long Italian locks do not mix. Hair had to be done in 5min intervals otherwise the sweat pouring from my forehead would drip and run back into the very same hair I had just washed.
The beginning...
A group of girls -instead of sitting seductively on the lounges, legs crossed, flashy high heels - sat with arms outreached and propped outwards, to the side - like you see in cartoons when somebody has two broken arms supported by two metal rods - and needing to fan the dresses from their legs upwards, ever so slightly, to circulate air to spots that desperating needed fanning.
A group of dirty sanchez men, even though they were covered in a cloud of their own stale tobacco haze you could still see their shiny oily heads, even shinier oilier hair and eyes wandering our way.
As the night wore on...
Dancing to hits that were top forty as I was going through puberty.
I do recall there were definately running man moves made.
Poses were struck.
A collection of high heels were turfed in the corner. Hair was now in pony tails or clumped ontop of our heads. And again...sweat - pouring from every pore on our bodies.
Group microphone sing alongs were belted out.
Air guitar was played with a barrier post as a prop.
Possibly a small arguement with the security guard who was a little concerned with me swinging the security post around like I was the new Santana.
Hopscotch! Yes hopscotch was played. Repeatedly! The hop, hop, jump, hop, jump, hop hop and Spin. I now know why my calves were so very sore the next day. I could hardly put my heels down on the ground.
Nights out now, never quite turn out how I expect they will.
It may be the age thing.
It may also be the bad influences around me (Spencer, Bern... Wigz)
However, when will maturity catch up and stop my brain thinking this is the best time in the world and stop me doing these things???
It's bad enough waking up and eventually recalling these images.
It's even worse when you have to relive them through facebook.
But what caps things off is when you have a sweat pimple the size of ones forehead being mistaken for a mosquito bite.
hey love these t's week are just awesome. look forward to more. you know tan you can put all of these into a book and publish them, you would make a fortune. hahahaha your cuz shaz
ReplyDeleteCuz Shaz... you organise the publisher and we'll go halves! Got a back log of about 50 from a year or so ago. Glad you enjoy them... even if it is at my own expense :)
ReplyDelete