Skinny jeans are out. Let’s drink to that! Trying to wriggle out of those suckers when you’ve had one too many is pure unadulterated torture. Valentine’s day is out. Let’s drink to that too! Trying to get a hot date here in Toadville where the ratio of hot women to not-so-hot men is about 10-1 is also torture.
Actually there is no need to ditch the skinnies, nor to worry about ways to wriggle out of them. When life hands you lemons on V-day, what do you do? Either you make lemonade or, better still, you plan an Under The Radar (UTR) operation with girlfriends. At least that’s how my blonde girlfriends and I did it this year.
This Valentine’s, instead of the usual all out shenanigans where the girls and I go out prowling the local bars to satisfy our shiny object syndrome, we went for a covert operation at home. We stocked up on chick flicks, kleenexes and beer, drowned Gummy Bears in vodka, played chubby bunny (that’s stuffing as many Marshmallows in your mouth as you can without choking) and ordered take out pizzas. Our weekly girls night out turned into a kick-ass pyjama party for grown women.
WTF? — might you ask. The essential background that provides the “why?” behind the “WTF?” is exactly as you might imagine. Last year’s drama-packed V’day. The scene unfolded at Havanas where the drinking, mingling, people-watching and rating was on full throttle and progressing nicely.
That is until the blondes set their hearts on the same semi-available, half-good looking, 100% douche bag. Before you could utter the words “female dog fight”, they had started arguing over which one of them should get the goods. Once it was decided that it was every woman for herself and may the best woman win, they both went in for the kill, at the same time. Like horny, I mean hungry, hyenas bent over the same carcass, they got physical, all teeth and claws.
Mean girl jokes started flying, followed by some innocent pinching and then some less-innocent hair pulling. Then hands got involved. Needless to say we all went home a bit bruised – figuratively and I am ashamed to say literally too. Complete disarray. This year the social butterflies (that would be us) recognised that the fear of missing out (FOMO) on the far out men (FOM) was far outweighed by the fear of losing face (FOLF) – again.
Let’s face it, what’s more mortifying than to hit Hipsterville Nairobi on V-day with your girlfriends only to bump into the usual Saturday night suspects, all hooked up and then having to fight over crumbs? Been there done that. No thanks. So what’s the skinny on skinnies? Leave them hanging (in the closet). Not because they are no longer cool but because you don’t really need them. When life gets boring here, you can always trade them for a pair of leopard pajama pants, pink bunny slippers and some hearty bonding amongst girlfriends.