That I only write about boys in this Blog is false and doesn’t paint me fairly, I mean, I am not boy-crazy and its not like I don’t have any girlfriends. Ok, that is not entirely true; I am boy crazy, which is a little odd for my age –but I like to think of it as a phase that I sort of skipped in my teens :). Then I was too busy hating men and was obsessed with motorbikes, salsa and had just discovered HELLO magazine which left me zilch time for the lads.
So I had a farewell party to attend and was wondering, who to take with? Normally the usual suspects would make do but this outfit has become too small and needs re-designing and a bit of colour. The usual suspects are basically the girlfriends whose bad manners I have grown to tolerate and because I was allowed only +3 this is how I decided who to take.
Martin; my not so secret admirer was feeling a little below the weather, so a little crowd to cheer the bloke sounded like a plan. Since my dreams of joining the jet-flying forces crashed and burned I feel fulfilled hanging around pilots. In the past I have entertained the idea of aviation until the inseparability of physics and aeronautics became apparent. Damn you Mr. Rono for making the subject so incredibly hard to grasp. All I remember was this teacher’s rotting chest skin that oozed puss… where were we?
Neema; I had met her the other day through a mutual friend and she seemed like a ball of fun. She is charming, blessed with the gift of the gab, makes jeans, boots and checkered shirts look stylish, and boy the husky voice- mama mia I want to know this woman. That she curses worse than a sailor and smokes a train is tolerable.
The only other jeans-boots wearing woman I want in my circle would be Dr. Manji, the coolest researcher I ever met and as soon as I upgrade my status in academia I will invite her for coffee and intelligent chat about the endangered Patas monkey.
Samantha was out largely because these days she is Sam&Ocampo. Never alone. I actually enjoyed their company until I didn’t. Ocampo the fiancé is hitting on me. It started out as a funny joke then his groping hands found my bum; yes some men are just gross. I have no intentions of telling her so don’t even go there. Experience has taught me different, things like these backfire on the victim and I don’t play ‘my word against yours’ his words. I’ll figure something out before they walk the aisle, I hope.
Mirror mirror on the wall who is the fairest of them all? Jamie! She is the ultimate boy magnet without a doubt, so beautiful and funny that our table often flocks with men of all tastes, shapes and sizes much to my delectation: I always land one of her cute rejects. Don't give me that look? Don’t you already know how I suck at getting me a decent man?
Anyhoo Jamie couldn’t make it for she needed the kind of TLC only the beau can provide, it had been a looong Ramadhan.
Lastly, every pathological social climber needs a Serena a.k.a the directory of the Rich and Famous. Anyone interesting I want to meet she almost always has their contacts and thanks to her invites I have thoroughly enjoy hobnobbing with the who-is-who and glad to report that my social life is so vibrant its bad. To return the favour I invite her to my usually far apart drab gatherings which surprisingly she loves because she can take a break from toxic make-ups, speak imperfect English and carouse to the ground.
It was a wonderful send off for our friend until I absentmindedly agreed to go for Rumba night with the gang, NEVER again. Two songs and I was ready to blow my brains out. But in an interesting twist of fate I run into Funny-boy… great company. I haven’t quite established what he feels for me and I’m not sure I want to find out, just yet. Comes as surprise even to me that I should be the cautious one.
PS: For the damn bunnies that read this page: I haven’t altered the names and events herein. This is a recount of my life as it were :)
