The other night, my beautiful sister and I decided to break out some foxy eye makeup and booty-poppin’ trousers for a night out on the town. Ideally, we should have ended up at a nice whisky bar, and one or both of us should have found ourselves chatting up some broad-shouldered specimen over a dram of Springbank.
But that simply is not how my life unfolds.
No, dear readers, we had some wine, my eyeballs decided to reject yet another trial pair of contact lenses, and my heels plotted to kill me on Powell Street.
Oh, and one more thing, I may have inadvertently caused a young man to become smitten with me.
A VERY young man.
Before you start picturing me as some kind of predatory hag who feeds upon prepubescent virgins, I swear that the kid was over 18.
But there is no reason for me to feel any remorse, right?
I didn’t DO anything.
I was just my usual charming self.
Oh, and I probably looked pretty damn good too. I like to think that I usually do.
So… totally not my fault.
But damn, of all the men in the room (and believe you me, there were oodles upon oodles of them), my come-hither eyes couldn’t rope in someone who had at least finished puberty? Must I resort to preying upon children?
In any case, I’m just going to chalk this up to yet another freak romantical disaster and move on with my life.
As of a few days ago, I am unofficially back on the Parisian dating scene.
Just kill me now.