Where I prove that I am still quite Vanilla

Lately, I’ve been feeling less Vanilla thanks to all the interesting experiences I’ve had with Coach & my boxing crew (7.5!) and my dating trainwrecks. That implied a certain loss of innocence which is rarely a good thing. Long gone are the days where my biggest concern was whether or not I’d be respecting the half-your-age-plus-seven rule with whatever guy I’d make out with when clubbing with Dynamo and the boys. [Fun story: almost 6.5 years ago, recently single, I was out on the town and saw this be-au-ti-ful athletic boy at the bar. I was 25 – a true cougar, so I thought. I flirtily asked him his age: 20. Pffffft, I thought, no way: his muscular development was such that he must at LEAST be 23-24. Why he’d understate his age remains a mystery, to this day. Fast forward the evening, and I began a torrid makeout session with him, in a darkly lit corner of the bar, because #matureandclassy. Despite his excellent kissing skills – further proof that he must be older than 20 – a nagging doubt about his age persisted in my brain, distracting me from the activity at hand. So I asked him for ID. A little bemused, he showed me his driver’s license which clearly showed that he was born in… 1990. Aka, many years after me. Aka, the next decade after me. In shock, I sat down, gave him back his ID, and announced I was unable to continue kissing him. Poor guy tried so hard to convince me, but the damage had been done. 1990. Child labor!]

Last weekend, I was out with Superwoman. Context: Superwoman counts amongst her close friends many big players in the Montreal, and even international, nightlife DJ scene. I have no interest in this scene. Over the years, her friends have become my friends that I see socially at house parties and gatherings; I frankly do not care how big/small of players they are, other than a general goodwill that they may achieve whatever professional goals and success they set out for themselves. At last weekend’s event, 2 such DJs were playing, and several other key figures from the scene were present (using words like “the scene” makes me laugh. I try apply it into an accounting context. “That partner is a big player in the aeronautical manufacturing scene. A big player!” Or better yet, “The CFO of my company is really starting to be a key figure in the carpet and flooring surfaces scene.” Totally works.) During the event, I flirted with all the guys because flirting is a lot of fun, although one of the DJs did catch my eye, and I his.

After the event finished, at 3:30am, I was ready to go home. But nooooooooo! Of one Superwoman’s DJ friends invited us over to his place to continue hanging out. I was a little dismayed. 3:30am is definitely after my bedtime. Superwoman told me to not be a little bitch: to decline the invitation would be impolite. I decided that I could suck it up for 45 minutes, long enough to not be rude, but short enough that I could be in bed before 6am. Off we went. I patted myself on the back: for the first time in my life, I was participating in a after-party, however small. #wildVanilla

At said DJ’s place, I didn’t drink: I’d long since reached the happy tipsy state that I enjoy, and had no interest in consuming more alcohol if my end goal was to sleep within the next 60 minutes. #practicalmoderateVanilla. Cute DJ was also present, still tipsily flirting with me, in front of everybody, which made me very uncomfortable: I hate having my business be entertainment fodder/gossip for others. One of Superwoman’s friends decided to intervene. He took Cute DJ aside, “Bro, you gotta close this deal! She’s a good girl! She doesn’t party much, she doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t drink too much. A good girl. Has a real job, is serious, obviously pretty, and her head screwed on straight. No drama with that girl. And she doesn’t sleep with ANYBODY! You won’t find many other good girls like her, who are also fun! Go for it!” Because, you know, nothing is sexier than a sober nerd with cobwebs in her vagina.

35 minutes into my 45 minute countdown (which was surprisingly fun, despite my exhaustion and lack of alcohol), one of the guests disappeared for 5 minutes. When he reappeared, he was distinctly more animated and talkative than before. I concluded that he had done cocaine. I had many thoughts:

As I got up to leave, Superwoman’s interventionist friend shook his head despondently at me, pointing at Cute DJ, “Vanilla, you disappoint me. I was sure you would close the deal.” Yeah, no, did I mention I don’t like being gossiped about?

So there you have it. If I was worried about becoming less Vanilla, last weekend put everything in perspective. No drugs, no hookups, no drunken fails, just staying up past my bedtime and some cobwebs. #badassVanilla




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