A Sad Story

On Saturday night, I went out to Oberkampf for Copain's birthday. For a girl who went to college at the University of California, Santa Barbara, once named the best party school of the year, this shouldn't be surprising. Oh but it is my friends, it really, truly is.

It even brought up some going out anxiety that I can only decipher as one thing: old age.

As the week went on, I started to think about what I would wear.  In college this would be an easy decision: jeans, a going out top and some kind of platform shoe.

But that was Santa Barbara, circa 2000 and this was Paris, circa 2012. Ah crap.

Knowing that whatever I wore would probably only be used once, I went and bought something new and cheap at H&M - you know, something to get me through.  I needed an outfit that would be bar and then nightclub appropriate.  I figured the turtleneck Zara sweaters I wear to work wouldn't cut it.  Thankfully, I found a royal blue dress that didn't scream old fart, yet didn't scream American hooker either, and I snatched it up for 20 Euros.  Paired with a pair of opaque tights and some black bottines, I thought I had hit the nail on the head, that whole "not trying too  hard" look.

When we got to the bar, my old age started to rear its ugly head again - why wasn't the bartender coming and taking my order right away? Who was I going to talk to? Why were the other people in the group acting drunk? Was I the only responsible person in this place? Why was there no where to hang my coat? 

When someone ordered a pitcher of margaritas with multiple straws, all I could think of was : germs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then, when people decided to move the party to the nightclub and it started raining, I thought, hmmm, go home safely now with someone else heading towards my neck of the woods, or wait in a line in the rain to get into a club? 

Even though it was Copain's birthday and I was the copine, I peaced out, just like an old fart would. How depressing is that? I can see it now: Santa Barbara party girl gets old, leaves Copain at his own party.

Now there's a sad story for you.

Paris Calls

There is something about Paris that makes me feel bad about staying in for the night. I feel like I'm missing something - like when you're a kid and it's bedtime but the grown ups get to stay up...and you can hear them talking and laughing and you just know you are missing out.

I left work today at almost 8pm. It was still light out and people were already gathered on terraces in the middle of their Friday night aperitifs.  I soooo wanted to join them. But I was exhausted, my eyes were dry from staring at an Excel sheet all day, I felt grumpy.

Then I wondered who I would even call if I did want to go out.  Ps -this is never a good idea if you are already in a bad mood. You ultimately just feel worse.

I try to tell myself that lots of people stay home after work. People who live in the countryside probably mostly stay home. How will I feel when I have children and can't go out, even if I'm in a good mood and want to?!

Paris does this to me. It's all Paris' fault.

So here I am, in PJ's, glass of wine, baguette with olive oil and fleur de sel and my trusty blog.

Thanks, I feel better now.