Sadly, Bounced-Back-Charismatic Pant was not on the menu. And the other options were pretty miserable too:
1) Uber drunk Pant: lacking control of spaghetti-like limbs, with the linguistic output filter switched off (I could've said any number of things to alienate Teacher Friend, from "Sheeeeesh, pal. Your dad is hot" to "It's a pleasure to meet you friend of Teacher Friend. And I envy your bravery in that dress.") and sense of social etiquette totally out the window ("Oh I know where you live, Teacher Friend's gran. There's an excellent little porn shop around the corner from you. Perhaps I can pop in for tea the next time I'm in the area. Say, tomorrow morning, afternoon or evening??" This may have also opened up dop n dial possibility. And what would I have said?
2) Lurker Pant: I can do this sometimes. Corner lurker. Trying not to disturb other people's fun. Usually end up smoking FAR too many cigarettes and feeling bitterly sorry for oneself. Also, if combined with liquor will most likely end in suicidal dop n dial. God! Can you imagine?
3) Cry In Toilet Pant. And this is the way it was heading. You see it's easy to mask emotion initially. It was sunny. I had sunglasses on (v big, v rad) and anyway, doesn't everyone cry at weddings anyway? But when the crying doesn't stop, it becomes a little weird.
And so I left. And went and got depressed drunk with people whose job it is not to judge me. And then I read my book with only one eye open.
Now I'm on holiday - beach side. Where the air is so thick you can drink it. And I'm three units down. Halle-effing-luljah.
And I'm being the Yes Girl for the next two weeks. I intend to spend most mornings with bleeding eyeballs, playing with The Daughter in the sun, and the evenings ensuring there's sufficient blood to alcohol ratio coursing through my veins.
And, well, if a little holiday romance knocks on the door - it would be considered rude not to answer.
Sent via my BlackBerry from Vodacom - let your email find you!
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