Zigging and zagging
Occasionally I do things slightly out of character, like leave the dishes in the sink for >30 minutes. Sometimes I do things that are pretty far out of character. Last night was one of those. My fashion-forward friend Molly persuaded us girls to attend "The Look" sponsored by Stuff@Night, or some similarly named event, at the Avalon. At first I was dead again'it, but I thought, "sartorially challenged, represent!" and crammed my problem calves into my most approaching-sexy stretchy boots, donned a purse with contrast-stitching, and headed out on the T toward my certain doom.
The evening was off to a smashing start straightaway when I got on the red line. The driver at every stop reminded us in the most withering and world-weary voice that this was the BRAINTREE TRAIN. BRAINTREE. THIS TRAIN is goin ta BRAINTREE. His tone was so sardonic that even passengers with earphones on looked up and rolled their eyes. I caught the multiply-pierced eye of an enormous woman across from me who had on Doc Martens and a t shirt that said "Wet Down There" in large letters, and I actually laughed out loud. She cracked up too. I felt like turning to my neighbor and asking quizzically, "Is this the Braintree train?" but I didn't want to spoil the moment in case they answered me in serious tones.
I got to Lansdowne and immediately downed a vodka pineapple. This night called for the heavy artillery, as we were immediately assaulted by vitamin water and push-up bras. Predictably, a DJ spun horrifying breakbeats while women's hair extensions were elaborately styled under blinding spotlights. A runway cut through the hubbub on the dance floor, which was outfitted for the 9 p.m. fashion show. Around the runway, purveyors of hip couture hawked expensive bakelite bracelets and unusual plastic beads, sex toys and skin cream, yoga mats with "me me me" printed on them. A saleswoman for these yoga mats, whose audacious nature intrigued me (dangling modifier intentional), described them as truly unique. This Asian woman with the lilting British accent fascinated me. I wanted to talk to her about her $150 skin cream all night just to hear how she would spin the various attributes of the product.
Molly got her hair done while the rest of us grabbed a much needed second drink from a woman with the most ridiculous breasts we'd ever seen. We speculated about where the people who seem to frequent "expo" type events come from. Surely they have parents and went to junior high and have problems interpreting maps, like the rest of us? They seem otherworldly. I was happy to provide the perspective of not-them to the proceedings.
After much ado we made our way out of there to the relative comfort of Boston Beer Works. (We had decided not to stick around for the runway show.) Many buckets of fries later, we were ready to go home, sufficiently lotioned and bath-balled and adventured. My stomach hurt from laughing so much, and I realized despite my misgivings it was a good choice.
The evening was off to a smashing start straightaway when I got on the red line. The driver at every stop reminded us in the most withering and world-weary voice that this was the BRAINTREE TRAIN. BRAINTREE. THIS TRAIN is goin ta BRAINTREE. His tone was so sardonic that even passengers with earphones on looked up and rolled their eyes. I caught the multiply-pierced eye of an enormous woman across from me who had on Doc Martens and a t shirt that said "Wet Down There" in large letters, and I actually laughed out loud. She cracked up too. I felt like turning to my neighbor and asking quizzically, "Is this the Braintree train?" but I didn't want to spoil the moment in case they answered me in serious tones.
I got to Lansdowne and immediately downed a vodka pineapple. This night called for the heavy artillery, as we were immediately assaulted by vitamin water and push-up bras. Predictably, a DJ spun horrifying breakbeats while women's hair extensions were elaborately styled under blinding spotlights. A runway cut through the hubbub on the dance floor, which was outfitted for the 9 p.m. fashion show. Around the runway, purveyors of hip couture hawked expensive bakelite bracelets and unusual plastic beads, sex toys and skin cream, yoga mats with "me me me" printed on them. A saleswoman for these yoga mats, whose audacious nature intrigued me (dangling modifier intentional), described them as truly unique. This Asian woman with the lilting British accent fascinated me. I wanted to talk to her about her $150 skin cream all night just to hear how she would spin the various attributes of the product.
Molly got her hair done while the rest of us grabbed a much needed second drink from a woman with the most ridiculous breasts we'd ever seen. We speculated about where the people who seem to frequent "expo" type events come from. Surely they have parents and went to junior high and have problems interpreting maps, like the rest of us? They seem otherworldly. I was happy to provide the perspective of not-them to the proceedings.
After much ado we made our way out of there to the relative comfort of Boston Beer Works. (We had decided not to stick around for the runway show.) Many buckets of fries later, we were ready to go home, sufficiently lotioned and bath-balled and adventured. My stomach hurt from laughing so much, and I realized despite my misgivings it was a good choice.
posted by expediency101 at 7:38 PM
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