WordPress statistics tell me that ya’ll like it when I get drunk. Who am I to argue with public opinion? So, because I love you all so much, I am (not) proud to present another episode starring Ms. Drunk.
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I’m a friendly kind of gal, and I’m always willing to meet new people and help out fellow expats in Paris. So it wasn’t out of character for me to agree to go on a girl-date with someone whom I’d never met.
I proposed coffee or quiet drinks, but she insisted on going to some club party. In retrospect, this should have been a red flag, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt and agreed to meet her in front of the club.
After I had waited about a half hour in the cold for this girl, I realized that I didn’t have her mobile number. I’d received no word from her about her e.t.a., so I decided to look for her in the club. It was early and not yet crowded, so it would have been easy to find people.
Upon obtaining entry, I was instructed to pick out a bracelet from a basket. I picked a lovely green one and, after faling to find my girl-date inside, headed to the bar to wait. The barman asked me if I had come alone, and when I responded affirmatively, he gave me a withering look of pity and returned with a beverage that can only be described as Death By Drink.
I’m not sure how long I sat there at the bar. All I know is that people were staring at me. Not in the holy-cow-look-at-that-foxy-lady kind of way. More like the check-out-that-sad-sap kind of way.
I eventually figured out the problem:
It was a traffic light party.
And my green bracelet was broadcasting my singledom to the world.
AND I was at the bar by myself.
So not only had I been stood up by my girl-date, but even the lads in the joint didn’t want to approach my green light; I was that pathetic-looking.
At this point, thanks to my pity-cocktail from hell, I was D to the RUNK and decided to abandon ship. I downed the rest of the Death By Drink and teetered off to use the ladies’ room on my way out.
Now, I must remind you all that the ladies’ room in any boozy establishment is like a magical place. This is something that transcends national borders, and even in Paris, a city of parisian bitcherinas, all ill will is set aside when tipsy girls find themselves shoulder-to-shoulder in front of a vanity.
This is where I met Véronique, a lovely redhead from southern Paris.
The chain of events from here on out is very very hazy, as Death By Drink had pretty much taken over my brain by then. But I can tell you this: during that time that we spent together in front of the vanity, Véronique and I became BEST FRIENDS.
In that short timespan, we swapped life stories, we laughed, we shit-talked our exes, adjusted each other’s bra straps, and told each other how hot we were.
Then Véronique came up with a brilliant idea. Her Drunk Brain said, “Since we are so hot, we should take pictures of how hot we are! That’ll show ’em, all those stupid idiots who don’t appreciate us!”
MY Drunk Brain said: “MUST. TAKE. PICTURES.”
And oh good god, did we take pictures. We took all kinds of pictures. Some of them were hot. Some of them were somewhat sloppy. And some of them were downright scandalous.
No, I will not elaborate.
But I will say this, when I flopped down on my bed that night, I remember thinking that despite being stood up on a girl-date, my drunky photoshoot reminded me that not all encounters with Parisians must be horrible after all. For now, at least, my faith has been renewed in parisian women.
Véronique, you rock.