Week 1 as a 25-year old recapped

I tried really hard to make time to write a blog last week – mostly to congratulate myself on reaching 25 years of age – but due to the extended festivities, none of that was possible.

Instead, I will recap the crazy goings-on of the past few days.

Let’s start with the hair-dyeing incident. The box said “blonde”, I left the pre-lightener and dye on for an hour each (double the recommended time), and my hair still came out looking closer to an apricot than desired. (When I saw my boss at a tender presentation the following morning, he nearly had a heart attack. I’m officially the office clown).

Next, let’s move on to the cabaret dancing to Frank Sinatra at a friend of a friend’s place. This guy decided he really wanted us luscious ladies to kiss for his viewing pleasure. (Did I mention we were stoned?) We didn’t quite yield to his request, but he was abated after I gave him permission to give me a foot massage (is it just me, or is that An odd request from a stranger?) But how surprised can you be with a guy whose jocks have been suspended from a pole on the balcony of Jolly Roger for three weeks?

On Friday, the day the boyf had “set aside” to celebrate our 3rd anniversary/my birthday, I go over to his house for a home-cooked meal (you’re thinking ag, sweet!), only to be informed that he has to play a dj set from 3-5am at some dodgy pool club/ex-Goth haunt in Blairgowrie. Riiiiiiight. Avoiding the justified argument that could have ensued (he did ditch me on Thursday – my actual birthday - after all), I acquiesced. We slept from 10 till 1:30, then headed off to the club, where I danced my ass off as hard as possible to ensure I didn’t fall asleep again.

No rest for the wicked, however. Waking up unpleasantly early (to sort out despised admin things that pile up routinely), catching just a few glimpses of that gorgeous Luke McAllister (All Blacks, shirt 21) on my way out, I proceeded to find tile glue and grout, beg for sponsorship for my Italian society’s 94.7 Challenge team (“No!”; “Um, no!”; “Sorry we don’t do that”; “Call head office”), drag Timmy to my house to help with some tiling (you may think I’m joking, but it’s a fave pastime of mine), and still decide what outfit to wear for my “gentlemen-and-classy-escort” party that evening. (The Gilb, clever and living dangerously as usual, called to ask whether I’d chosen my outfit yet, before coming over to my house to get sucked into the affair).

The party: utterly splendid. Everyone I wanted to see was there – barring a few important Cape Town peeps and those flung in various other corners of the Earth), looking mostly classy-slut (with the exception of one white-clad Oxford Road ghetto-slut – you know who you are). The vino went down way to fast, and was followed by that detrimental cigar. Not being a smoker, it got me very rough very quickly. After doing the elegant thing in Sandton till 1:30, we moved to Norwood till 4:30, where my memory disintegrates. I commented to the boyf that it was strange my voice was hoarse on Sunday, to which he replied that it was no fucking surprise after my 2-hour shouting match (or what I prefer to call a ‘debate’) with a friend over political issues. Oh well. Then of course, one friend started getting it on with another friend (at least it wasn’t in the confines of our pantry this time, but rather in a public toilet).

More torture ensued on Sunday morning, when I luckily awoke at 9:30 because I couldn’t breathe – thank God, as I was meant to be picking up the boyf for a fandamily lunch at Mount Grace. I looked quite the English rose in my pink sundress, but underneath lurked my sore psyche. Ultimate proof that it was cigars and not alcohol that did me in, lies in the fact that I wasn’t hungry at all, and after forcing about 10 oysters down my throat (you’ve got to have them when they’re offered!), the rest of the meal looked rather lacklustre…

And so the week went.