I am not allowed to use self-tanner. My addiction and subsequent orangeness led J to encourage me towards skin cancer rather than look at THAT anymore.
But even at my worst moments I never approached the tangerine shade of the damn Oompa Loompa girl seated next to us at the hockey game last night. She may have been a lovely girl, I couldn't tell you because remember those tell all books about the Patridge Family and the girl that only ate carrots? This girl was kicking the shit out of that color. And she and her little boyfriend didn't watch a moment of the game they were too busy talking on their cell phones. WTF is that? I don't get going to an event and spending the whole time on the phone.
After the game we went to a bar with some of J's friends from work. One of the new gentlemen he works with, who is like fifty and British, spent the whole time staring at my tits and calling me "love"--normally I would find that charming but meh. Not so much YO. STOP LOOKING AT MY BREASTS OLD MAN.
Occasionally I would look over pleadingly at J who was engrossed with other people and for some reason they were feeling each other's underwear lines? Maybe I don't want to know actually.
It is a testament to how uptight I am that I would never go out like that with people from my office. Sure, I've gone out for drinks but I would never get drunk. Even though it was rather refreshing to see their bookish accountant start head banging her head to Guns and Roses. You can take the girl out of Bellingham but you can't take the Bellingham out of the girl.