DD

I have the best family and friends

Like, really tho.

My paranoid brain might be waging a full blown war against me, and Mimi is taking an extended nap, but I still have a few weapons up my sleeve, in the form of the greatest friends and family ever. Their love is like a magical spell that never fails to put a smile on my face and make me feel centered.

My Quebec cousins. When I visited them at the end of August, I was still recovering from the shock of my discovery – something I had not shared with them, as I was too ashamed to admit what had happened. All they knew was that I had been involved for months with a guy who wouldn’t commit and who, in their words, often made me look “spent and exhausted“. They were, to put it mildly, not the biggest fans of Beaut. At one of the activities that we did that weekend, I wanted to take multiple pictures with my iPhone, but of course, lacked space. #iphoneissues On impulse, I deleted my entire 10-month text history with Beaut to free up memory. Upon hearing me mention that to my cousins, the boyfriend of the youngest cousin exclaimed enthousiastically, “Fuck yeah!” The thing is, I only met this boyfriend once before, and had obviously never gotten to the point of intimacy where I confided any part of my dating life to him. I realized that he was up-to-date on my Beaut saga from briefings from my cousin/his girlfriend. My cousins obviously discussed my dating life between them. As an only child, I was completely unused to having my business so freely shared, not having any secrets. Yet, I was incredibly touched that my story mattered so much to them, that even their boyfriends cared that I find happiness. My almost-sisters. My darlings.

The eldest cousin has an email subscription to my blog, and reads every post the day it comes out. Yesterday morning, she called up her sisters, and read my last post to them. Together, they plotted and planned how to execute an intervention from a distance. And whether it might not be worth it to jump in a car and drive down to Montreal and “screw his head off”. Qc cousin #2 took matters into her own hands and naaaaaaaagged me to unfollow Beaut on fbk: I could continue to occasionally look up his profile, but I needed to stop over-investing myself in his life and concerns ASAP. As she put it, if I wasn’t willing to do it for my own well-being, could I please do it for her and her sisters? They were fed up of seeing his name pollute their news feeds. Oye.

Dynamo. Of all my friends, he was most tolerant towards Beaut throughout. He understood that sometimes, you can’t chose who you care for. During all these months, did he encourage me to ditch Beaut? No. Did he ever rant that Beaut wasn’t treating me well, that I deserved better, etc etc? No. He accepted my assurances that Beaut, in his broken, limited way, truly cared for me. He accepted that Beaut was living through a firestorm. He pointed out to me that if my goal was to be a true friend to Beaut, and accept him as he is, then I needed to accept that his actions, and his words, amounted to him saying “I can’t make space for you in my life” – not that he didn’t want to, but that he was incapable of it at the present moment. Dynamo suggested that a true friend should accept others’ limits, and not impose oneself – that would result in me being another source of stress and inadequacy in Beaut’s life, which is not the contribution I wanted to make. Dynamo gave me a framework to work through my confused, hurt emotions that didn’t involve my usual narrative of being inadequate, or unlovable.

When he found out last night that I had unfollowed Beaut on Facebook, he uttered a guttural war-cry, danced a little jig and double high-fived me. In a crowded movie theatre.

DD. Similarly to Dynamo, she never judged my willingness to invest myself in a guy who wouldn’t commit, nor did she ever judge Beaut for his incapability to commit. She trusted me to evaluate whether this friendship was producing a net positive in my life. She was the first and only person I confided my shocking discovery to, because I knew she would handle my shame with care. Which she did. She advised me to impose serious boundaries in my friendship with Beaut, if I was determine to continue it. It took me 4 weeks to listen. I expected her to say “I told you so”. Instead, she said “Halleluja. I knew you’d get it sooner or later. I’m glad you’re investing in your well-being.” That might be the least sarcastic comment I have ever heard her utter.

Allie. One of my dearest friends, other than Dynamo. She’s just moved back to Montreal, with her fiancé, after living in New Zealand for 3 years. I’ve missed her awful – she has asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding next year, first time I’ve ever had that honour. I’ve been spending a fair bit of face-to-face time with her, and getting to know her fiancé, because any man that is deserving of Allie’s heart is a man worth knowing. The morning after spending a quiet evening with them at their place, Allie wrote to me to let me know that her fiancé wanted me to know that I was to consider their condo as my second home – that I was welcome anytime, always. We were soon to be family, anyhow. He’d noticed that same exhaustion my cousins hated – despite me not talking about any part of it.

And so many others. It’s hard to feel unlovable when the second I stumble I’m surrounded by ppl offering me a hand to get up and brush myself off.

 

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Grateful to have a headache 

Every morning for the past month, I’ve woken up with a headache. It’s awful. Take your normal “I don’t wanna get outta bed” and add the physical sensation of being nailed to your pillows through your forehead. Is it any wonder that I’m always late for work?! The first 10 days of waking up with a marching band in my skull were scary. I became convinced I had brain cancer, because what other explanation could there be? It wasn’t dehydration, because I was drinking enough water to fill a bathtub. Obviously, it must be cancer. I’ve always felt I was destined to die young.

At a girls night with DD two weeks ago, I was bitching about work, and this huge project I’m leading, and I mentioned my impending death from brain cancer headaches. DD, who knows me inside out, and is extremely well versed in my anxiety and depression struggles, stared at me. “Vanilla, I’ll come to your funeral if you die from brain cancer, but have you considered that *maybe* these are stress headaches? You don’t exactly manage your stress well in the best of circumstances, so now that your work has levelled up and you’ve quit boxing, avoid being a drama queen and explore plausible causes for your headaches, why don’t ya?”

Lesson learned: DD cures cancer with her wisdom and sarcasm.

So yeah. Stress headaches. Knowing that’s what I am dealing with doesn’t make them any more pleasant. I am under a lot of stress. I am the lead on some big deal high-profile projects at work, and am scared shitless. I do breathing exercises at my desk at least once a day, to stop myself from having a panic attack. If I fail, the consequences for my company and my career are… unpleasant (how’s that for not being a drama-queen, hmmm? Such tempered, moderate vocabulary! Go me!) There’s a permanent vice grip around my heart, relentlessly reminding me of the stakes at hand. It will only disappear once the projects come to term before the holidays.

But here’s the thing: deep down, I’m elated. Because, you see, I haven’t felt this level of work-stress and terrifying fear of failure in 2 years. It has been almost 26 months since I last took on a challenge at work, the kind where there is a solid 40-50% chance I might not be able to pull through and deliver, where there is no safety net because I am putting everything on the line. I hadn’t taken anything on, frankly, because I couldn’t – I was just dialing it in, professionally. I hadn’t adequately recovered from my last depression: I ran away from any pressure because I felt like a fragile glass pane – I was technically keeping it together, but if the load got too heavy to bear, I would shatter. The fact that I am even capable of handling what I am handling is the ultimate proof that I’m back. I’ve missed this version of myself: the smart, ballsy, efficient professional. I’ve missed feeling deep pride in my work. I’ve missed the gnawing fear – because that fear is proof that I am stepping up, and making a real tangible difference. I’ve missed knowing that my work was of a sufficient quality that I can be trusted by senior leadership to plan, develop, implement and successfully roll out a project with no supervision. I’ve missed having my brain as my ally.

Sure, these headaches are a nuissance. I didn’t have them pre-depression. They are a reminder and a warning that I need to manage my mental health seriously: my brain is like an elastic band. Every depression has a cost – I might recover, but my brain loses some of its elasticity. But goddamn, am I ever grateful to be healthy enough to have these headaches.

#iambackbitches

#vanillathebadassprofessional

The accidental chastity belt

Immediately after the best trick-or-treating session ever, I attended a friend’s Halloween house party. There was a good cross-section of friends and strangers (a ninja, a sexy bumblebee, a priest, a steampunk rocker, a cowboy with a flesh-wound, Will Smith from Independence Day, DD as a dirty cop, Nene wearing a mask that can be found in Justin Bieber’s music video What Do You Mean – don’t ask me how I know that…)

My eye was drawn to the tallest guy in the room. Good posture, filled out a suit nicely, all things that are important when being superficial and judging someone purely on their looks. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one impressed… most of the ladies in the room were around him. That rankled – I refuse to compete for a guy’s attention. So, after chatting with him briefly, I drifted away to have a great convo with the wounded cowboy and the steampunk rocker. While I occasionally interacted with the Designated Hottie, long enough for him to hear the Vegas stories straight from DD herself and be intrigued by her “vanilla with chocolate sprinkles” comment, I was a social butterfly, and talked everyone present. A hot guy does not make me lose my manners. #mymommaraisedmewell

As the night progressed, Designated Hottie drifted more frequently into my orbit. Many drinks later, Designated Hottie suggested we step outside, to cool down, as it was quite warm in the house. Smirking, I followed him out, and we went on a walk that inevitably resulted in a torrid make-out session. I hadn’t kissed a guy in 17 months – that is how bad my dating life has been. I was worried for about 10 seconds that I had forgotten how it works, but then I relaxed and had a lot of fun. He definitely knew what he was doing.

After a protracted spit-swapping session, Designated Hottie asked me to go home with him. I said no. More making out. He asked again. I said no. He asked why? The first thing that came to mind was chagrin that I hadn’t taken more time during my morning shower to properly “groom” myself. But seriously now, with my history – why bother? Obviously, I wasn’t about to tell Designated Hottie that. So, instead I told him the second truest reason why I wouldn’t go home with him: I don’t sleep around.

Designated Hottie tried every possible gambit in the book:

  • He really liked me, he didn’t necessarily want to sleep with me, we could just spend time together. After all, he couldn’t force me to sleep with him. I laughed, thinking he was being funny, pointing out my relief that he was aware of that, because otherwise it would be rape. He got irritated with me for saying the R-word;
  • Why was I breaking the flow? He was a big believer in flow;
  • Why couldn’t I give him a real, GOOD reason why I wouldn’t spend the night with him? He couldn’t accept such a flimsy reason as the one I was giving him;
  • Why was I so scared to take a risk and trust? If I always lived life so cautiously, I would miss out on great things!

That last one is a frequent topic of discussion with my therapist. I decided, why not? I could take a risk! Maybe I should let loose and see where the night took me? I accepted Dedicated Hottie’s offer.

Just prior to re-entering my friend’s house, I suddenly got very angry. Here I was, about to let some dude play on my insecurities about my Vanilla lifestyle and convince me to do something that was against my values. This same dude seemed unaware that recognizing that rape wasn’t an option is not, in itself, something commendable, just as he was unaware that RANKING MY REASONS FOR NOT WANTING TO SLEEP WITH HIM IS NOT OK. NOT OK, DUDE. 

So I told him: I was done, and that was that. We re-entered the house party, and I ignored him.

I had trouble having fun. I was shaken by what had just happened. I kept my distance from him, stayed long enough to convince everyone I was a happy party animal, and left.

He’d noted my mood, and asked to speak to me before I left – I expected an apology. Instead, he tried convincing me one last time to spend the night with him, asking WHY I would walk away from something that was bound to be good and special. Exasperated, I told him that I firmly believed in a universe where a guy might find me special enough to wait for, even if he didn’t understand my reasons for not sleeping with him right away. Anything else didn’t interest me. Humbled, he understood. He told me he would text me the next day, and that he wanted to see me again. We kissed goodnight. I went home. Alone. 

He added me on Facebook the next morning. He liked a picture I was tagged in. He texted me while I was out with friends; I told him I would text him later on. He didn’t respond to any of my subsequent texts. I noticed he’d added all of the girls present at the party.

Curious, I asked DD if Designated Hottie had returned to the party after I’d left. He had. He’d also cornered DD outside and kissed her, and then harrassed her to go home with him. When she refused, he asked her what her reason was. She told him she was too drunk, and he told her that wasn’t a good enough reason. DUDE, YOU NEED TO REVISIT THE CONCEPT OF CONSENT. STAT.

Also, can somebody explain to me his thought process? He’d just spent 5 hours partying with me & DD. He’d seen and heard just how good friends we were. What was he thinking? Did he not expect us to talk to each other about our night?! I feel that was poor planning on his part.

Men.

I just don’t understand them.

#vanillaftwmotherfucker

I didn’t understand how to properly Vegas: Vanilla style!

On day 3 of our Vegas trip, DD and I went to a shooting range and shot some machine guns. And shot-guns. And AK-47s. And a handgun – so quaint and wee! Let me tell ya, that stuff wakes you up WAY better than a cup of coffee!

Afterwards, I dragged DD to Tao Beach Club, a small exclusive pool at the Venetian. I was feeling sociable and wanted to get my flirt on while getting some rays. My eye was immediately drawn by the small group of people playing beach-ball in the pool. I nudged DD and told her to check out the hot guy, meaning the white guy who looked like a low-key version of Brody Jenner. DD, assuming I was talking about his friend, the only black guy in the pool, agreed that he was definitely my type. Sigh – no matter how often I exclaim that I don’t have a type, my friends persist in disbelieving me.

Approximately 4 minutes after DD and I settled down on the ledge of the pool, someone hit the beach-ball too hard, and it flew towards me. I playfully hit it back to the group, thereby earning myself a smile from the black dude. Within 20 minutes, that beach-ball was making its way to me with surprising frequency; DD gave me a knowing smile. I soon was an active participant from my seat on the ledge of the pool. I didn’t rush to join in – I had some tanning to do, and a drink to enjoy before ramping up the flirting. #priorities

(Only in Vegas: at Tao, all alcoholic beverages must be consumed on the deck or in the pool but alongside the ledge, possibly to avoid messes like we experienced the day before. The lifeguards, who walked around with handcuffs dangling from their belts, only used their whistles to aggressively call out any guest bold enough to venture into the pool with a drink in hand. These same lifeguards, so alert, so disciplined, did not react whatsoever when a douchebag decided to dive in headfirst into the 3-foot deep crowded pool. Because, you know, a spinal injury would cramp the party much less than someone puking in the pool.)

Post tanning and libations, I joined the beach-ball crew. Inevitably, black dude (henceforth referred to as “LA”… I never got his real name!) struck up a blatant flirtation with me. His Brody Jenner lookalike friend (“Brody2.0”) clearly had his eye on a cute friendly brunette in a pink bikini. During one of the pauses during the game, LA chatted me up; his flirting style was overt, silly and harmless – the kind of flirting I can respond to with my eyes closed. The perfect way to spend a sunny afternoon in Vegas. Until this exchange:

Baby girl, when are you leaving Vegas? Tomorrow? Aw, baby girl, I’m leaving later today, but having seen you, I’m strongly considering delaying my flight by a day, what do you think?

Think?! I think that is a terrible line. Despite knowing it was bullshit, my brain went into full overdrive:

Why would he say that? That’s not cool. I can’t handle this kind of pressure, why can’t we just flirt, make out and be done with this? Oh lord, I am overreacting. I hate overreacting. He can’t realize I am overreacting, that would kill all the fun. Goddamnit, why did he have to say that, I AM FREAKING OUT.

Ignoring my brain, I continued flirting with LA – he was fun and cute. However, just to make sure he understood who he was dealing with, I warned him I was very vanilla. Taken aback, he asked DD whether or not that was true. Much to my relief, DD immediately confirmed it, and then blithely added, “Vanilla, but she’s been known to enjoy her chocolate sprinkles.” 

Which, effectively peaked LA’s interest like nothing I had done before. Every guy likes a challenge, right?

Meanwhile, Brody2.0 was making serious progress with Pink Bikini; coy fondling in the pool, the odd neck-nibble. LA watched approvingly, and then confided in me that Pink Bikini was married. Sure enough, I soon noticed her wedding ring. Noticing I was upset, LA explained that they had already discussed it: Brody2.0 was aware that he probably wouldn’t score, but it was still a worthwhile gamble to him.

At that moment, my enjoyment of Vegas sharply diminished. “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” suddenly seemed a bit too pathetic for me. While Pink Bikini hadn’t swapped spit with Brody2.0, or technically cheated, it was obvious to me that had her hubby witnessed her antics, he would have been pissed. And the fact that guys were cool with her just confirmed my cynical view that most men are pigs. I didn’t want to witness any of it – from her suspended morals, to the guys’ willingness to oblige her.

Still, I tried to ignore it, and enjoy my flirtation, and calm my mind every time LA joked about his flight. Neither he nor I were married, so we could flirt/fondle all we wanted, right? DD definitely thought so, she took me aside and told me to “RELAX, and have fun for once!!”

Fun. Ok. No problem.

When the DJ suddenly released a hundred beach balls into the small pool, that seemed to be the signal for everyone to simultaneously hook up. The pool, which had previously been largely empty with people lounging alongside the edges, was suddenly filled with couples aggressively making out. I was so perplexed at the correlation between beach-balls and hookups, that it took me several minutes to notice that I found it all very trashy. Possibly because LA was upping his moves on me, and willy-nilly, I was enjoying being found explicitly attractive, I was 2 cm away from his mouth before realizing I was one kiss away from being one of those trashy couples. Playing up being a tease, I avoided kissing him and when LA went to get drinks, I asked DD to help me extricate myself from this uncomfortable scenario.

She told me to grab my stuff, and we walked out of the pool. Confused, I questioned whether or not we should say goodbye, as we had just spent 4 hours partying with LA and Brody2.0. Patiently, she told me Brody2.0 didn’t give 2 shits about either of us, since neither one of us was Pink Bikini, and could I please walk faster? LA was looking for us.

And that is how I handled Vegas. Vanilla ftw!

Looking back, I’m embarrassed at my inability to navigate that situation with grace. But I’m grateful that DD is such a good friend – she accepts my Vanilla-streak better than I do myself.


The rest of the trip:

 

I didn’t understand how to properly Vegas: part II

I’m enjoying my second day of a balanced diet that includes lots of veggies and fruit servings that aren’t consumed via daquiris. I have a headache from booze withdrawal. That, or my sunburnt scalp.

Speaking of sunburns, half of my trip was spent at various pools. Living as I do in a city that had a (minor) snowfall (dusting) last week, the opportunity to prance about in my bikini, blinding everyone with my reflective pale white skin, was unexpectedly appealing. 

The part where I am financially savvy

Saturday, DD and I had tickets to a pool party at Encore Beach Club, DJ’d by David Guetta. DD and I planned to arrive around noon, as entrance was not guaranteed after 1pm. However, we ran a little late, because I got stuck in a 2.5 hour-long sales meeting that morning, during which Holiday Inn tried to sell me $43K worth of time share. (Don’t ask. I don’t want to explain how close I came to buying into that scheme. Not my proudest moment!) I was frazzled whilst getting ready for the party, uncertain of what to expect, other than pools & debauchery. I decided to leave my beautiful $450 prescription sun-glasses at the hotel, for fear of losing or wrecking them, assuming that on our way to the club, we’d pass by a stand/store that sold cheap glasses. Inevitably, nothing of the sort was available, and a huuuuuuuge lineup was awaiting us at the club.

15 minutes after gaining access to the club, I realized my terrible mistake: I knew I wouldn’t last the hour in that sunshine. A sign at the bar indicated that Ray-ban sunglasses were available for purchase at a cool $200. Feeling desperate, I asked for a pair – only to be told that they didn’t have any in stock.

So I bought a beer instead.

One hour later, with a pounding headache, I noticed an employee walking around, selling sunscreen, hats and other sunitems… including ONE PAIR OF SUNGLASSES. Running towards him and waiving my arms, I begged him to sell me the glasses. Based on his reaction, that has never happened to him before – he definitely laughed at me, and asked me several times if I was sure.

Worth every penny. The relief was instantaneous.

The part where DD is financially savvy

Meanwhile, DD wore her regular $40 $20 sunglasses to the party, and laughed extensively at my naïvety. According to her, I should have just worn my expensive prescription glasses: no one loses glasses at a pool party, because no one ever bothers taking them off!

Approximately 3 hours into the party, DD had lost her glasses.

Approximately 3.01 hours into the party, DD used her dimples to smile at some random dude, who promptly offered her his glasses, which she kept and he forgot about.

Only in Vegas

Things observed at this party:

  • A guy wore a blue thickly-knit tuque all day; even when jumping up and down in the pool, causing a ruckus. He and his crew all had 1-2 tattoos on their arms and back: no doubt that was the basis for their friendship.
  • While waiting in line, the group of guys ahead of us discussed their approach for the day: “So who’s gonna be the bachelor for today?” 
  • Not only was ID required to get into the party (+21 years old), but the bartenders required ID every single time a drink was purchased. This meant we had to keep our passports with us, at the pool. Given that all daybeds and cabanas were reserved (for a reasonable fee of $2,000) this meant that we had to leave our purse on the pool deck, discretely hidden in water-logged towels. Who knew our passports would get as much sun and water as we would?!
  • The lifeguards were all beautiful men – who looked miserable. That might have something to do with the fact that the main pool had to be cleared for 30 mins in order to be drained… because someone had thrown up in it. Salty water!!
  • After David Guetta had shown up (around 4pm!), the party, which had already been quite good, was wild. So wild, in fact, I had the dubious privilege of observing a couple attempting to have sex in the pool. It seemed a bit of a challenge for them: no enthusiastic finish, more of a discomfiting collapse. Salty water 2.0!! Long live chlorine!

Where I get the reputation of being responsible

DD and I met, amongst many, a hilarious trio of British guys who kept us very entertained – one of whom was the poor soul who willingly gifted DD his sunglasses. After trying to dance in the pool to a few of David Guetta’s songs, we all decided to clamber onto the deck and dance in the “mosh pit” (the area of deck immediately in front of the DJ booth). I then noticed DD was missing. Concerned I looked for her everywhere, and found her making out with a guy in the pool. She seemed happy, and he promised me quite sincerely to take care of her, so I let them do their thing, and went back to dance with the boys, and smiled happily into David Guetta’s eyes – I swear, he was looking at me. There is an advantage to having the whitest skin in a crowd of 4,000 people: I stood out!

After an hour or so of dancing, it occurred to me that I should check whether DD was alive, and that no one had stolen our passports & credit cards (which I’d abandoned on the pool deck, when I went to dance). Soon after locating our purse, DD located me, and praised me for my responsible actions. DD admitted to having over-indulged in the booze; after the consumption of a bottle of water, and the end of David Guetta’s set (priorities!) we made our way to the locker line-up to retrieve our clothes.

While in line, DD confessed to an urgent need to expunge some of the booze: however the wristband for the locker was on her wrist, and too tight to remove. DD made a praiseworthy attempt, even removing a few layers of skin, but the wristband wouldn’t budge. A girl in line with us offered her help, and soon a guy joined in, playing tug-of-war with DD’s wristband, while I  was too squeamish to watch and DD stood there happily, announcing at random that she couldn’t feel a thing, wasn’t it great that she was drunk?

The wristband was eventually removed through the team effort; DD was free to divest her internal organs of booze, and I reclaimed our clothes from the locker room. I threw on my cover-up, and after watching DD’s attempts at walking in a straight line, I confiscated her pants (being unwilling to watch her attempt to clothe herself – which would result in an inevitable faceplant), leaving her only with a see-through scarf to drape over herself. She was a little daunted, but then remembered that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas (until it makes it onto my blog!), and so agreed to walk back to our hotel in that modest attire. Throughout that 10 minute walk, during which she clung to my arm, she periodically thanked me for guiding her so expertly home – thank goodness, I was so responsible!

Only in Vegas would my behavior be deemed responsible.

I didn’t understand how to properly Vegas

Flying home on a redeye after 4 days in Vegas. It was a much needed break from the real-world, good for my soul.

This trip cannot be summarized in one mere post. Also, I am tired. So, for starters let me start with:

I forgot to gamble, while in Vegas. 

That’s right! Despite staying at the Venetian, I didn’t spend a single penny on gambling. I did dedicate 5 champagne-filled minutes gazing at a very complex slot-machine, before deciding that I wasn’t interested. #priorities 

 

That summarizes rather perfectly the entire trip.

That time I went bathing suit shopping… and came home with a book

I am not a runner. The thought of all that bone-rattling effort makes my joints ache. Which is why, when I signed up for a 10km run in Quebec city last summer, friends and family were somewhat perplexed: was I sure I would put in the required training? Enthusiastically, I assured them I would: I was committed.

Yeah, no, turns out I wasn’t. I went running a total of 4 times prior to that race: the highlight of my training happened the day I decided I needed to recover from the exertion of getting dressed in my running gear – I took a book and sat at a terrasse at the nearby coffee shop, and read outside in the toasty sun. Unfortunately, the book was engrossing, and I wasn’t wearing a hat, so all that exposure to the sun really tired me out. It was unsafe to go running after that much sun: wouldn’t want to risk a heat-stroke, after-all!

Vegas!

Two weeks ago, I impulsively booked 4-day getaway to Vegas with DD: we’ll be flying towards trouble next week. I was pretty stoked until my bestie advised me (right as I was taking my first bite of deep-fried chocolate ice-cream!) that pool parties are the thing to do in Vegas.

summer readyI figured 2.5 weeks would be enough time to starve myself into sexy style but I underestimated the power of two Easters (Catholic Easter last week – celebrated with my godmama’s Italian family, and Orthodox Easter this week celebrated with my old man). Starvation didn’t happen, and I’m leaving in 5 days. Only one option remained:

BATHING SUIT SHOPPING.

I don’t consider myself a very big coward. But some things are really unpleasant. I find the idea of stripping down in front of a guy for the first time to be much less intimidating than going to a pool full of people and flaunting my jiggly bits, especially if that pool is in Vegas, chock-full of beautiful plastic people. Only marginally less traumatic is the activity of bathing suit shopping: once I am at the pool party, it’s too late to worry anyhow, especially after 1-2 drinks to dull the nerves. I think bathing suit stores should start serving hard alcohol: guaranteed increased sales, and terrible lapses in judgment.

The shopping saga

DD suggested that I get a one-piece, as the option of not attending a pool party due to bathing suit insecurities was clearly ineligible. This morning, therefore, I did some research and found several one-piece models that seemed affordable and sexy, and set off on my quest in an almost cheerful frame of mind, confident that it would only take me 2-3 tries before finding the perfect suit.

After 10 bathing suits, my confidence was wavering and I was late for boxing. Putting aside the unpleasant task, I went to get punched in the face for an hour – much less upsetting than bathing suit shopping.

After boxing, I felt strong and powerful, able to take on anything. I sallied forth to the first store on my list; moved briskly onto the second; grumpily onto the third; despairingly onto the forth. After trying on 50 bathing suits, I was ready to cancel the entire Vegas trip, and was convinced my body shape was horribly unique: all one pieces made me look frumpy, and most of them were too long for my torso while being simultaneously too tight around my average-sized bust.

I sought refuge in Indigo book store. 45 minutes later, I finally had my first purchase of the day: a book.

I considered abandoning my bathing suit quest, but didn’t want to repeat the same fail as I had last summer, when faced with a similar unpleasant obligation. Girding my loins, I decided to give it one last try. 30 bathing suits later, I purchased a bikini!

CONCLUSION: Vegas had better be amazing, to compensate for the mental trauma I went through today. Also? I’m really excited to read my new book.