Thursday, 22 February 2007

Bah Humbug

Thank f*** for that, Valentines is finally over, all I need to happen now is for the resulting cloud of depression to lift and I shall be right as rain. Unbelieveably, and for the first time in living memory, I actually had a dinner date on the dreaded day. Well, okay, it was only a date if going out with my GBF counts.

Miles was in town from London last week and was insistent on “experiencing Valentines as part of a straight couple,” so I booked us a table for two at the Klee Brasserie for 8.30pm with plans to stop by Employees Only for a few pre-dinner cocktails to numb the Valentines inflicted pain.

Our pretense at straight coupledom was almost complete when we nearly had a pre Valentines tiff at brunch the Sunday before because he invited the 2 other women at brunch to join us on our romantic evening a deux. What was he thinking???? Our V day dinner date may well have been a total sham, but no-one else at the restaurant was to know. Turning up with 2 other floosies would have completely given the game away. Honestly, three women, the man is insatiable.

Have to say that in hindsight it probably would have been nice to have been out with a crowd. It wasn’t quite the cheesy, fun, ironic dinner with my GBF I’d hoped for, which is not to say that the food wasn’t delicious (hats off to Klee Brasserie for a lovely dinner with fabulous service) and that the company wasn’t divine. It was, but as usual I couldn’t help but be sucked into the Valentines vortex of the despairing single. Sigh. All the joy of being footloose and fancy free was drained from me as soon as I was handed the pink hued prix fixe menu (barf) and I found myself missing Gobshite terribly. I couldn't believe it, it’s been a whole 6months since we broke up and I thought I was wayyyy past missing him. It was v v annoying to feel so despondent, especially as I’d been feeling so much more like my happily single self and had more or less nipped any residual wallowing in self pity in the bud.

Pah, Valentines schmalentines, I hate the way it always makes me feel so bad about my spinster status!!! Next year I vow to stay in and watch CSI. In fact I am going to write a note to the producers suggesting a story line for Valentines '08 where a formerly devoted fiancé chokes his bride to be with decorative Valentines beads, because that will make me feel a WHOLE lot better about being single. And to think I missed a salsa class for that too.

Fortunately it’s all over for another year and the shops have been quickly swept of nasty heart shaped chocs and replaced with the much less judgmental Marshmallow Peeps. I am feeling much lower levels of emotional upheaval about popping into Duane Reade now that the shelves are readied for Easter.

Valentines aside it was lovely to have Miles in town, even if he did accuse me of being schizophrenic about nudity, simply because I balked at the Gap Ad of yoga posing Christy Turlington with her tits practically hanging out of a red vest top, but had no qualms about stripping down to a paper thong for my body scrub at the spa last Friday. The cheek of the man.

Can I help it if I happen to feel you should leave something to the imagination when you’re in company/on a public billboard, that there is a time and a place for getting your baps out? It's not even that I’m offended by the Gap Ad, but neither does it make me think “oh that Christy, she’s such an earth mother. I really must pop into Gap and buy a red top to help those affected by AIDS in Africa.” No, instead I think ”Christy love, your nips are showing in that top, why don’t you run off and pop on a bra and get yourself some support, otherwise the girls will be down to your knees by the time you’re 40.”

Anyway Miles is one to talk about me being schizophrenic. He was practically flashing people in the communal waiting area of the spa we were at on Friday in his very loosely tied robe – mine was firmly cinched – but as soon as he was in the privacy of his own treatment room it was apparently on with the strategically placed modesty towel.

Schizophrenic? Me? Err, hello pot, it’s the kettle calling.

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