Wow, No Thank You - Samantha Irby Page 0,7
This is the absolute latest I can cancel without pissing off my friends. An hour ago would have been preferable, but it’s really unlikely that anyone has already started prepping with two hours to go. The crime isn’t bailing on the night. The crime is bailing on the night after hair has been shampooed and meticulously styled and Spanx have been squeezed into. If I’ve put on a real bra and you pick up the phone to tell me some shit about a headache, I’ll meet you at the club with some Excedrin, bitch.
5:15 p.m.: the slog begins.
I’ve just spent an hour regularly checking my phone in the hopes that someone else would cancel, but they haven’t, so I guess it’s time to wash. First, I’m going to take a few Imodium in case my intestinal tract decides to get cute. Which it definitely will, either because or in spite of the fact that all I’ve consumed in preparation for this evening is a banana and a Luna Bar and three glasses of water (for health). And I’m not actually watching this movie, just putting it on so I have some comforting background noise. (Okay, fine, I’m watching it a little, but it’s not going to make me late, I swear.) Now would be a good time to clear out my junk e-mails since my laptop is open anyway, but somehow I resist. I should also probably eat some dry toast in the shower so that my drinks have something soft to cushion their landing, then do my hair on the toilet, because the way my bladder works now is that I could just keep peeing forever if I wanted to. I’m perimenopausal and constantly dribbling. I definitely should pull out my best dark pants.
5:45 p.m.: “will anyone notice…?”
…that these shoes are FitFlops and I didn’t paint my toes?…that I messed up my eyeliner?…that these pants don’t really fit right?…if I wear underwear that goes all the way up to my chin?…that I’ve stopped aggressively exfoliating?…that I didn’t spend enough time with a comb?…that on the left side, my lipstick extends a centimeter above my top lip?…that there’s an eensy-weensy, teeny little piece of tape on these glasses?…that this ill-fitting bralette is giving me quadra-boob?…my hair, which isn’t curling right?…that I really did use tweezers, I swear?…that I recently switched to natural deodorant?
6:00 p.m.: panic city.
This is usually when I start worrying that some combination of lateness and extreme anxiety is going to ruin the evening for me, and tonight is no different. I’m sitting on the side of the bed and I’ve already unsuccessfully tried on:
a sequined top (why on Earth did I buy that?)
a cold-shoulder sweater that obviously snuck into my fucking closet
boots with a conservative heel (wtf)
jeggings (um, I do not believe in clothes I have to peel on—this is a violation)
lace (itchy)
something called “tapered peg leg trousers” (just use your imagination)
Not only do I have to throw all these clothes in the garbage before I leave, but I also have to seriously evaluate who the fuck I thought I was buying these clothes for, since obviously it wasn’t me. I like to wear nightgowns from Lands’ End. Why are there zippered pants in this suitcase? Who okayed the stabby underwire bra? No time for an existential crisis like the present, and honestly, when better to slide down a self-esteem spiral than when a cab is outside with the meter running and I’m about to embark on a full evening of casual judgment from inebriated strangers? It’s obviously the perfect time to rip the lid off Pandora’s box and launch a deep investigation into Why I Buy So Much Aspirational Clothing, right? I know my friends are currently putting on one final swipe of mascara while getting ready to walk out the door, but instead of getting my shit together, I’m trying to exorcise the demon inside me that purchased a fitted satin skirt.
6:10 p.m.: this is fine.
I’ve been sleeping in these high-waisted, black yoga pants and a scoop-neck T-shirt that has gone loose around the collar since my book tour stop in Omaha, so why not keep the party going and