Note #149 // The Anguish attached to a Night Out

So, I went out on Saturday night.

And while I danced the light fandango once I got there, the three hours before? Sheer Hell. I cannot deal.

You have shoes. Lotsa shoes. And you have clothes. Lotsa clothes. But an actual outfit? Not so much. 

Right, next challenge: trying to create an outfit based around closed-toe shoes so you don't have to paint your toe nails.

Do you have that one item in your wardrobe that you put on to gauge if you should write off the chocolate and wine? It stares at you every time you open the wardrobe, and goads you to try it on, "I'll be the perfect fit, all your outfit worries will fade into nothingness once you slip me on." Well, given said item was a white pencil skirt, there was never going to be painless slipping. More wrenching, hoicking and praying. I did get it on, but I couldn't breathe much. Back in the cupboard for you.

"I'm fat! I'm old! My feet already hurt! Why have my friends done this to me?!"

T minus two hours before you're due to leave the house. You're still stood in front of your wardrobe wearing nothing but the shoes you've decided on. This is not a sexy image. Trust me.

"That's it! I'm not going out! Ever. Again. I'll just sit in the house wearing smock tops and watching Jeremy Kyle, because I cannot cope!"

Finally out the door (in originally planned outfit). You forgot your flats. Shit.

9pm: Hello cocktails. This is so much fun!

Five yawns in five minutes. It's 10.09pm

11pm. The good music starts, just as you register the first inkling of foot pain, but it's okay because ppaaaarrrtttaaayyy!!

A double amaretto and coke is HOW MUCH?

Why don't I do this more often?

12.30am: ouch, ouch, OUCH! Oh, that's why.

12.35am: Who let these children in here?

1.15am: Looks at watch. Makes first enquiry about what time the club closes.

Forgetting earlier "I'm fat" rant, plans which McDonalds meal to have in two hours time. 

Ah! The good music is back on

Oh hello alcohol taking effect, back to the bar *whips out card.* "All the drinks are on me ladies!"

This. This is why I go out to clubs.

And just like that, you fall asleep, make up still on, room spinning, bedsheets strewn in McDs wrappers.

Wakes up next morning and finds receipt from that last spontaneous round. In the words of Bridget Jones:

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