fefa

This weekend brought minimal, yet memorable, life lessons…

Lesson 1: When not to shop
First off, I know that’s a frightening concept. Times exist where one should not shop? Blasphemy! Shut your mouth Fefa! Thankfully it was not Fefa herself who experienced this life lesson, though she was both present and affected by it none the less. Identity will be withheld in this lesson as not only does – let’s call her Miss Expulsion – have plenty of dirt on yours truly, but more importantly, she has a precise knowledge of Fefa’s shopping locales, tactics, and sizes and could sabotage future attire endeavors were she so inclined.

Saturday started well enough. Miss Expulsion and I headed to the Galleria and started with lunch at Nordstrom’s, where the previous evenings booze-rich activities and other people’s private details were discussed and ridiculed over mimosa’s and lunch. After finishing approximately ¼ each of the food we ordered so we could fit into our preferred sizes, and throwing back the last of our drinks, into the vast collection of designer stores and over-priced boutiques we ventured excitedly, and slightly tipsy. About two hours in, and 4 boutique bags each, Miss Expulsion felt a tad woozy and thought it was perhaps time to head home. "It’s just the smell of new clothes" I assured her. "Sometimes it overwhelms me too". Pro that she is we made one last essential stop before real consideration of leaving would be put on the table. It was here the gravity of the situation became apparent.

Unable to select even a single item for herself, she sat in my dressing room feigning as best she could to adore what I was trying on. When she seemed to approve of a pair tapered leg jeans I knew we were in a serious situation, we had to leave ‘stat’. Or just as soon as I checked out. No sooner than we exited did the imminent danger reveal its ugly head; she was going to throw up, right here, right now, in the middle of the Galleria.

Our stilettos clicked and echoed through the Galleria as we tottered as quickly as possible towards the nearest bathroom. With a hand over her mouth she croaked out a "take these", tossed her bags to me, and hightailed it down the hall, through the door, and into the stall. She made it. Calm was restored, and bags in hand we sauntered out of the bathroom as if nothing happened, only to return moments later for bout 2.

Soon enough we were able to make the trek back to the car. Seat reclined all the way, she lay exhausted in the A/C taking slow, deep breaths. "Are you sure you’re ok?" I asked. "Thank god we managed to make it to bebe" she replied. And this is why Miss Expulsion is totally, like, my bff. Lesson learned: bebe should always be the first stop.


Lesson 2: What not to sit on
This lesson will also withhold the identity of Fefa’s friend. Except for her ass. Warning: the image below contains graphic detail that some readers may find disturbing. Or arousing.

Ladies, I’m sure we are all familiar with the scenario: a beautiful Sunday, patio with cocktails flowing at the nearest happening establishment, the perfect little short or miniskirt outfit so one may both tan and look cute in the process. Yet it comes with one downfall: the chair to skin factor. As we settle in, drinks in hand, gossip flowing, we dread the moment where we must stand, for any reason. Not only will our beautiful legs have somewhat adhered to the seat after sitting in the sun for some hours and have to peel off the chair, but we will then be forced to take the patio walk of shame with the backs of our legs embarrassingly red, or worse – waffle printed – from the combination of heat inspired skin adhesion to the patio chair, and whatever imprint said patio chair design leaves on ones legs.

This can be somewhat avoided by sitting in the uncomfortable perfect-posture-edge-of-the-chair position, where only half our ass is seated, and we have an awkward - though well postured - positioning of the rest of our bodies while attempting to both remain seated and look casual at the same time. But we all know we actually appear as if we are sitting on an upright stick, and do not portray the graceful, comfortable, lady of leisure image we hope to project. Not to mention that after a few drinks any attempt of posture or lady likeness goes to shit anyway.

So what’s a girl to do? I don’t have an answer for that. But I can tell you that what you should not do is sit on a paper napkin in hopes it will absorb any sweat, much less prevent waffle print. Tis a far more embarrassing walk to the bar when…

posted by Fefa @ 9:59 AM