My first long weekend off in years! I was ecstatic and ready to hit the highway and veer in the direction of far, far away. So four of us gals piled into a car and headed straight for Niagara Falls. We got to our $240/night hotel room at the Days Inn, only to find the carpet hadn’t been vacuumed, there was an empty coke bottle peeking out from under the bed and a spider had made its home in between the bathtub and the toilet. We decided to ignore our surroundings as best we could and start getting dressed (hard feat when you refuse to put anything down) for our epic night out. Once we were dolled up and sporting a happy buzz (from the Chardonnay and Riesling we had purchased earlier on in the wine country), we crammed into a cab and away we went to the nightclub. Fifteen minutes later, we were in the middle of the swamped dance floor getting blinded by flashing lights, feeling the bass inside our chests and being tossed around by people weeding through the crowd…. we were loving it! All of a sudden guys were coming up from behind us, trying to get their groove on (at this point you exercise the fly-swatting method). Another group of gentlemen offered us drinks at the bar… to our dismay accepting the cold beverages equated to us having the honour of their company for the rest of the evening (here you proceed with protocol “distract and run”). And last but not least, one of us was frantically looking around to catch the offender who had just purposely grazed her butt (at this point all females in the posse should be set on alert to catch the culprit and impart a collective wrath onto him).
Now ladies, occasionally we will succumb to the female-bonding ritual known as “girl’s night out”, where we like to free the inner goddess and hence, dress provocatively. Unfortunately, the gentlemen of the world didn’t get the memo, and once you walk through those club doors, the only thing they see being set free is the cleavage sliding out the front of your dress. We have this “girls just want to have fun” mission statement invisibly tattooed to our foreheads, in case anyone dares to question our behaviour. Hence, as much as I’m all for putting the blame on the male species for testing the waters and pushing their luck… if you’re going to dress like a slut, prepare to be treated like one. However, if you’re like my friends and I who apparently prefer a tamer (more covered up) version of “free the diva’ night in comparison to other blush-worthy party-goers, go ahead and be appalled at those dirty rotten scoundrels with the wandering eyes.
Hint: If you’re acting like a lady and dressing like a lady, then most likely you are one, and will be regarded as such by any drunken passer-by with an ass-pinching disorder (or he might cop a feel regardless, but at least you’ll have every right to send him flying across the room… or have him kindly escorted out of the club by security). At the end of the day, if you’re dressed decently and acting proper then no one will have the right to say “Well she was asking for it”, when a man decides to prove evolution by heading back to the ape days.