I have a fashion confession: I've spent a majority of the last
six years in a tracksuit. No, I'm not part of a gang, nor am I an
Olympic athlete… yet. My job involves a lot of sports coaching,
running around and playing spaceships with children; a tracksuit is
practical. The obvious disadvantage is that it's not overly
flattering. The baggy trousers and bright orange t-shirt (no joke)
do not scream sex goddess. The uniform is comfortable but I feel
invisible. But who am I going to meet at work anyway?
When a Friday night comes, though, I pull off my tracksuit,
blare out Kate Bush and get ready to play. I enjoy dressing well;
it makes me feel good, like a lady (despite the fact I'll end up
with kebab on my face and wake up £70 lighter).
Now, I'm not blowing my own trumpet but I look banging in a pair
of heels. I get a lot of male attention, which is good for banter
but little else. It's great when Mr. Suit walks up, drink in hand
and says "Hey babe, how do you like your eggs in the morning?" I
smile, take a sip of my drink and reply "Unfertilised thanks".
Winner.
Incidentally, I know I'm no fashionista, but I do question some
people's outfit choices. There are tops made of string, belts
fashioned as skirts, and leggings that look like a child's gone mad
with a Spirograph set and some Crayola pencils. I would also
comment on people's tans, but I look like a TOWIE reject most of
the time - my orange hands and feet would rival those of a tiger -
so who am I to judge?
Back to Friday night, though. Me and the girls are doing it
gangnam style on the floor; the vodka is flowing, the armpits are
sweating and the room is blurry. But it's OK, we're having a good
time and the night has only just begun. Next thing I know, I awake
in *my own* bed. How the hell did I get here? I stumble to the
bathroom mirror and my hair looks like someone had a party in it.
And, of course, the Facebook notifications start… "Best Friend has
tagged you in 24 horrific drunken photos." Great. They are like a
flipbook of how a group of girls gradually descended into the
gutter.
The Saturday Hangover Club involves bacon sandwiches, tea and
repeats of Come Dine With Me. Inevitably, the questions start. "Do
you remember downing that dirty pint?" No. "Who was that girl you
snogged?" Don't know. "Remember dancing on the bar?" No! "It was
great when you called her a slutty bitch." Who? "Your ex." Oh
God.
The dictionary definition of 'lady' is "a woman who is refined,
polite and well spoken" and that is blates me until about 8.30pm
every Friday… and Saturday… and every other Sunday. A loose
colloquial definition of 'tramp' is "a promiscuous woman (see also
'slut')" and I'd say that sums up my dance moves after a bottle of
wine, three double vodkas, five sambuccas and half a shandy; always
a responsible drinker.
So I am a lady-like tramp, who is sick in a bush and argues with
taxi drivers, but do you know what? I'm happy. Well, I'm happy
until my fake tan sweats off, then I look like a patchwork blanket.
I don't know why I'm single.
Follow Sarah on Twitter @sleevsie22
