This Can't be Real Life











{July 10, 2012}   6 Hours, 6 Inches…and Counting

There are many questions most of us, including myself will never be able to answer accurately. Like, how many hairs are on your head. The real extent one would go to for a klondike bar.Or, why women fall head over heels in love with douchebags. I can however, give insight as to the correlation between pink scarves and kickball, how much influence an avacado can have on the ending of your night, and why women painfully stagger through bars for 6 hours wearing 6 inch heels.

The bar scene. Something I am a self proclaimed expert on. I remember walking into my first bar at 18, proudly displaying my state of the art, homemade fake ID. I won’t lie, it was a power trip. I was where all the cool people hang. I was somewhere I shouldn’t be. I was somewhere that unknowingly at the time, would become all too familiar. Every weekend, we would wear our skimpiest outfits, even in the dead of winter, positive that the love of our life was waiting inside. NO. There was however, an overabundance of penis ready to liquor us up, in hopes that those skimpy clothes would be on their bedroom floor in the morning. And sadly, at 18, or 19-22 to be bluntly honest, those corny pickup lines by the super cool 30 something’s and .75 coors lights at phoenix hill, worked more than once. Maybe some people would be ashamed to admit this, but I know well enough, I’m not alone in this category. I can be honest. It happened. And somewhere out there, it still is. Actually, I see it every weekend.

We will get to scarves and avacados at another time. Today, I’m going to answer the scentilating question of why so many women put themselves in the cutest pair of excruciating agony they can find. Yes, women love shoes. I probably own 60 pairs myself. But to be honest, my $2 old navy flip flops are my favorite. Sadly, they do nothing for my calves. Or my booty. Or that cute little black dress I love so much. And certainly not any of the “men” at the bar.

At some point, I did realize the love of my life was not waiting inside of Molly Malone’s. Or Drakes. Or Diamonds. So why would I still choose the red, 6 inch Kate Spades on Saturday night? The calves and booty can be worked on at the gym. The dress is still going to look amazing (but only 99% so). So why? Drumroll please.

Hope. Hope, that the jaded and cynical ways our thinking has become is wrong. Hope, that the Cinderella story and that one pair of shoes can impact ones love life ( without the wicked stepmother and sisters,that is). Hope, that those shoes will provide the necessary balls if in fact, the perfect man suddenly appears, to make that first move. That’s it. That is the answer. Well, the less desirable option being having the shoes in case it is necessary to poke some schmucks eyeball out if he gets fresh. So now you know. And now,as I’m shaking my head at myself,  I will be on my way to find my next conquest- yet another great pair of heels. SERIOUSLY.

THIS CAN’T BE REAL LIFE

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