Girl and City

Love sickness, according to Wikipedia, is defined as “a non-medical term used to describe mental and physical symptoms associated with falling in love.” Falling in love is also defined on there too but I was too scared to click on the link. Love sickness is apparently also an anxiety disorder. Well, I gotta buy a vowel because that explains why I am perpetually a mess whenever some boy comes along. I am suffering from an anxiety disorder!

Last week, I went to a conference in Boston with about 20 other kids from The Business School. The conference sucked. So we skipped most of it to explore Boston instead. DEB was on the trip, and we spent a lot of time together. I really didn’t mean to, since I had already gotten over his dreamy eyes and given up on him. On the bus there, I ended up sitting beside him, but nothing happened of course. We didn’t talk much, but we didn’t sleep much either. Later, I would realize this was because he was as excited about me sitting beside him as I was.

Twelve hours is a long time to spend on a bus, especially when you’re brushing shoulders with a guy who has the power to make your knees go weak. As soon as we arrived, the Girls (BI, GHG, and me) realized we had adjoining rooms with the Guys (DEB, FMB, and two others). You know what this means — late-night sneaking into each others’ rooms was not going to be a problem.

After registering for the conference (which was a nightmare because the guy “in charge” of our delegation did not have the first idea what he was doing and had the maturity of an 8-year-old), BI and I went to Chinatown in search of cheap and fast food. We found an ancient-looking banquet hall that was bizarrely decorated, with faded walls, dingy carpets, a musty smell. In true Cantonese dim-sum style, carts soon started to roll by our table, offering unidentifiable dishes made almost entirely with MSG.

When we returned to the hotel, I did not feel like going to the afternoon workshops, so when I ran into a group of girls headed to Newbury St. for some shopping, I invited myself along. Newbury St. is famous in Boston for its high-end boutique stores, and I was excited to see for myself how it compared to The City.

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In the past week, I have been single-handedly trying to revive the Canadian economy with an inordinate amount of shopping. And eating out – because those are the two best aspects of The City.

The first night after I arrived in The City, I went out for dinner with two girlfriends at a little-known Shanghainese restaurant and we had Peking duck, an elaborate three-course affair¹.

The next day I went shopping with my mother and I bought two blazers, a pair of trousers, and a pink blouse. Since I entered TBS, I have been purchasing business clothes almost exclusively (primarily because I had none before).

A few days later, I was out shopping again, followed by mainland-style dim sum at First Markham Place.

The next night was dinner at Grazie, a lively Italian restaurant uptown. I drove threw a blizzard to get there, but it was worth it. ALS was there, along with three other girlfriends. Over pasta (theirs), pizza (mine), and wine (ours), I related to them the MFL conversation and they all agreed that our friendship was an unhealthy one.
“It sounds like neither of you want to let go. But where is this going to go?” PL emphasized.
“Exactly,” I agreed, bobbing my head up and down, “I’m too weak to let go. I can’t let go until he does. But he won’t.”
“He’s a douchebag. Seriously, you just have to forget about him. Stop seeing him!” ALS practically yelled.
“I don’t see that there is anything wrong with it really. Maybe he still likes you. Maybe you guys will get back together someday,” OBF interjected hopefully.
“No, it’s not going to happen. It just won’t,” I said with finality.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re both different now!”
“And as different people, maybe you’ll get back together!” OBF was the most idealistic of the three, even though none of them had much relationship experience. In other words, none of them had any exes to speak of, so it was difficult for them to imagine having a post-relationship relationship.

Looking at our group, OBF is definitely Charlotte York. She is naive, idealistic, and believes there is a soul mate out there for everyone. Her own relationship is a dictatorship – her boyfriend essentially caters to her every whim, she being a very needy person.
PL is Miranda Hobbes: smart, quick-witted, and snappy. She can be charming, but most of the time she is strongly argumentative, opinionated, and judgmental. Her current and only boyfriend is a man twenty years older than us, divorced, and used to be our economics teacher in high school (he still teaches there). There was a big scandal over their relationship, but since it was not official until after his divorce and after PL graduated, nothing could be done by the school. It is not altogether surprising that her boyfriend is a forty-year-old; she was always into older men, finding everyone under the age of 29 to be far too immature.
ALS is so desperately inexperienced that she cannot be any of the women from Sex and the City. For her character, the show would simply be named “The City.” She is immensely close with her family – for example, she tells her mother everything, from the parties she goes to (very few) to the boys she likes (again, very few). I cannot even begin to imagine telling my mother those sorts of things. I mean, what are girlfriends for?
And I am, without a doubt, Carrie Bradshaw. Not because everyone wants to be Carrie Bradshaw, the long-legged, charming, and quick-witted sex goddess, but because I was Carrie Bradshaw before I knew Carrie Bradshaw existed. My blog is my very own “Sex and the City” column, and while I was far less obsessed with fashion and shoes until a few years ago, that has more to do with age and income than with personality. Worst of all, I, at my young age, already have a “Mr. Big.” In fact, if it hadn’t been for this single factor, I might not be Carrie Bradshaw at all. I might not even be a character on Sex and the City. I might be a more care-free character on Friends, or a more career-oriented character on Lipstick Jungle. Instead, I am Carrie Bradshaw because I have Mr. Big, and because of Mr. Big, I also have had more run-ins with the opposite gender in the Land of Ambiguity than I care for. Consequently, I have also formed a circle of friends to commiserate with, a la Bridget Jones. So, I blame this entirely on MFL.

1. The first course is skin wrapped in “pancakes,” the second is stir-fried ground duck that you can roll in lettuce leaves, and the third is duck soup. [↩]

This is why we have girlfriends, to remind us of the important things in life:
Me: I need shoes.
WAF: You don’t need shoes.
Me: Shut up. I need shoes.
WAF: No you don’t. You may need clothes, underwear, tampons, or even birth control pills, but not. shoes.
Me: No. I don’t need any of those things. I am perfectly happy naked, underwear-less, and tampon-less. And I definitely don’t need birth control pills, because I’m not sexually active. But, I need shoes.
WAF: Oh yeah, you’re still practicing that thing called “abstinence.” How’s that working out for you?
Me: Fine. It’s working out fine. I like it.
WAF: That’s just because you don’t know what it’s like any other way. [Pause] Omg! I got my period!!! I think!
Me: Congratulations? Between being constantly worried that I might be pregnant and knowing for sure that I’m not, I choose the latter.
WAF: If you go around naked wearing only hot shoes, I’m pretty sure that won’t last long.
Me: Good point. I’ll buy some ugly shoes to balance it out then.

—

I had a job interview today, and as soon as the interview was over, I went shopping.
I didn’t mean to do it of course, but the Fairweather beside it was having a sale! I just had to have a little peek. Besides, I made a pretty good impression during the interview – surely, she was going to give me the job, right? Of course.
So I went into Fairweather looking for a dress to wear this weekend for SassyGirl in the City Part 2. Actually, I already have a dress that I’ve decided to wear this weekend, but I had to keep an open mind. What if there was a better dress out there, just waiting for me to take it home with me? One musn’t be prejudiced about these things after all.
I didn’t find anything (Fairweather’s clothes were never good enough for me anyways, I sniff), but as I was walking out of the store, I picked up a skirt off the sale rack and paid for it. What? I deserve a little indulgence, it’s going to be my birthday soon! Besides, I’m sure I got that job.
As I was walking towards the bus stop, I noticed a small wine store. I don’t have any more wine in my apartment, I suddenly recalled, and promptly walked in and bought a bottle of 2006 Muscat. How could I call myself a city girl without a constant stash of alcohol at home?
Then I checked the bus schedule and realized I still had another half hour. I’ll just go into one more store, I thought. So I walked into another clothing store, wine bottle in hand and everything. I decided I would just find a pair of shoes to match the dress I had at home. I didn’t see any shoes that matched the dress, but I did find a ridiculously cute pair of black stilettos. Come on, black is sexy, timeless, and functional! Who didn’t need a good pair of black stilettos, right? Then I noticed a couple colourful tops and dresses on the wall and decided to try them on, too.
Two hours later, I had both salesladies at my beck and call and had tried on almost every top and dress the store owned. There were at least twenty discarded items outside my change room when I finally emerged victorious with a stunning strapless dress that was perfect for a night out on the town. It wasn’t on sale, but I could always keep the tag on and return it if I didn’t end up wearing it this weekend right? I congratulated myself on being so shrewd and told the cashier to ring it up. Just then, I noticed a very Victory-Ford-esque dress on the highest rack and had to try it on. So I did. And it was adorable. Even the lady in the change room beside mine said so.
“How much is that?” She asked. I showed her the price tag.
“You have to buy it. It looks like it was made for you.”
“I know right?”
I look like Victory Ford, I thought to myself as I examined my reflection in the mirror. I didn’t think it possible, but I do. I actually look like the fictional fashionista herself!
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