Change

Scene: A relatively low-budget byo pasta restaurant in central Wellington. I haven't washed my hair since the gym this morning (did it yesterday), I changed in to jeans after work and i'm wearing a top with no sleeves and there's a couple of days growth down there. I have minimal makeup on. In all honesty, this is me on a normal day, but there is a deluge of kitten heels and soprano style greetings and soon the table I am at is swimming with what I like to call standard issue girls. Long, dead straight foiled to perfection blonde hair, air brushed bronze skin, not an eyebrow out of place and lip gloss touched up the minute they sit down. And dressed in black. They're all in black looking completely unscathed by the humidity. They travel in packs these girls, it is part of their mesmeric charm. As a solitary force they are attractive, perhaps even head-turning. As a cluster their silky starlit blonde heads illuminate the room and their incessant banter becomes hypnotic to nearby hapless male diners. They fill their flutes to flowing while I pinch my eyebrows and explain good naturedly that it's my sixth christmas function in eight days. I'm all Ho Ho Hoed out. I sit there, springy short curls and freckles and denim, wishing I was more directly in the path of the fan. I pepper my way through with courtesies and niceties. After the strain I'm ravenous and it seems like a good idea to order a buttery rich fettucine, but the heat and the chatter and the cream don't sit well. I make my excuses and slip out in to the summer drizzle and remove my shoes and let the sound of rubber through puddles wash away the repressive vice on my psyche. It is so strange, to covet something and simultaneously despise it.