I lost a bet. No, not the one with God that has resulted in the life I’m currently leading. It started when I recklessly tried to employ irony, and ended when I foolishly agreed to go clubbing with LD.
No, I’m not kidding. I’m now contractually obligated to go clubbing. And no, “clubbing” is not a new euphemism for advanced book reading, followed by a bubble bath and the emergence of my fuzzy bunny slippers (though, I am trying to figure out a way to work that into the scenario).
I’ll just give you a moment to let the laughter settle down.
Obviously, I’m still me. I made sure to place some minor, entirely reasonable restrictions on this enterprise. The current contract reads:
I, Kate Dating, hereby agree to go “clubbing” on a Thursday night, in Hollywood, from 9:00pm to 9:30pm with LD pending certain contractual obligations are met by LD prior to the event. “Clubbing” is herein defined as showing up to club, entering venue, observing wildlife in their natural habitat and swiftly exiting the building.
I think you can appreciate that while I did indicate “Thursday”, I did not indicate in which year that Thursday would occur, giving me plenty of wiggle room. Vexingly, LD has ingeniously recruited other people who will not only witness this event, but also make my escape less likely. I need to start saving just in case they can be bought. Still, I am confident that I will prevail once my motion to include the wait in line outside the club as part of the half hour is passed.
Something I didn’t cover? Myself. As in, how will I cover my actual person. Pen and LD came over to my apartment to go through my closet. Shockingly (gasp), it turns out there is nothing appropriate for the Los Angeles scene in there. Though, comfortingly, I will be the best dressed nun at the convent. So, I do have that going for me. Very delicate negotiations are now underway with regards to exactly what needs to be shown versus what should never ever be shown. For instance, thus far I’ve held strong that everything from my neck to my ankles should be covered in something woolen and forbidding. LD has started sending me links to dresses that Lady GaGa might find too risqué. Pen, my friend who is supposed to be my voice of reason, seems to be leaning in the daring décolletage direction, and Chloe doesn’t care what I wear as long as she gets to see video evidence of the entire thing.
The logical thing to do in this situation is to admit defeat and figure out a way to make the saran wrap I will end up in look good – although I’m not really sure how to get industrial strength spanx or find an intricate pulley system to combat gravity that won’t also leave unsightly lines and bulges.