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Episode 18: The Jumpsuit Night

This morning I woke up with a resounding question, “Am I really full of shit?”, and complete numbness in my feet courtesy of my heels last night.

Let’s recap. Also, pardon the bluntness and potential erratic writing. I may be of the hungover type right this moment, and I may also be having an imaginary conversation with Bill Skarsgård about a movie we filmed together in my head. (If you’re reading this Bill, we should talk.)

My friend celebrated her birthday last night. She planned a little gathering at someone’s apartment which has one of those communal rooms with pool tables and all that jazz. We were late, oops, because we had a prep party at my house filled with makeovers, wine and tarot card readings. (I read tarot cards.)

We’ve been pumped about this party for a bit. We both look incredible, and I’m thinking, we’re hitting the clubs and we are having the awesomest fun evar. I’m wearing a hot jumpsuit. And heels. This is happening.

#mood #canteven

We finally get there and her friend is, understandably so, annoyed at her (us). He cornered her to talk about it before she joined the rest of the party in the room. Which really annoyed me. I appreciate that he thought the situation was awkward because she wasn’t at her own party, which he graciously hosted, for a bit – fair on him truly, he’s fully allowed to be angry. What really ticked me was that he would talk to her about it then.

What ever happened to masquerade? People at Court built whole lives and countries around that, and they didn’t do too bad for themselves, minus a couple of beheadings, imprisonments, and coup d’états. It’s all about the Importance of Being Earnest.

I’m obviously exaggerating. But there’s a time and place for everything and that was definitely neither the time nor the place to give her shit. At her own birthday party? Would it have been that bad to have that discussion over a cup of coffee the next day? The worst that someone ever did to me on my birthday was deny me of McDonald’s at 3am. (I’m looking at you, Alex.)

So in I pop into her group of friends whom I’ve never met before, already a bit weirded out by this guy. They’re watching the Lady Gaga documentary on Netflix, but they were discussing which comedy to watch instead.

And I’m like, “HI EVERYONE I’M RUXANDRA. SO NICE TO MEET YOU. WHY ARE YOU WATCHING NETFLIX?! LET’S PUT SOME MUSIC ON AND DANCE AND TALK. IT’S A PARTYYYYY.”

I may have been obnoxious. I’ll take it. But, guys. Come on. It’s a Saturday night, we’re supposed to mingle and whatnot. Anyhow, they hated me. It’s all fine. Apparently, it’s because I’m artsy and they’re all researchers – I’m trying not to be offended by that statement, but hey, I’m artsy so I can be emotional, right?

But by now I’m pretty confused by the atmosphere of this party. Then something else happened which bummed me out even more (unrelated to me which is why I’m not disclosing it in the blog).

At some point during the night I realize that I may not have been a proper lady that knows how to network and be pleasant with everyone. I attempt to rectify that by talking to people, including the host (the guy who cornered my friend).

He’s doing a PhD in Sociology (Information?), so we start discussing that. According to him, some of my suggestions were condescending. I apologized, mentioning that it was definitely not my intention to make him feel that way. He didn’t really take any of it well. Clearly, I was doing zero things right last night. At which point he said, “you should stick to your arts.”

And my brain went like “oh no he didn’t.” But I’m trying to keep some sort of composure – I was drunk though so I’m sure all drops of composure had evaporated out of my body quicker than a drunk person inhales their 3 AM Big Mac (still not over it, Alex).

I mention my psychology background, but he’s still sticking to his “stick with your arts” routine. So, I said the only reasonable thing possible:

“You know what? You’re a jerk.”

He responded with an equally reasonable statement: “You’re full of yourself. You’re full of shit.”

Brava.

Here’s the kicker: I don’t think I actually care which kind of has me baffled. I’m kind of impressed and concerned at the same time by my lack of caring. But hey, we can’t win them all.

I still try to mediate this because he’s my friend’s friend and I think that at the very least, we should be cordial towards one another. It didn’t work.

That wasn’t the end though. Full of shit and feeling like the shit, I was going to hit that club like it had never been rammed before.

No one wanted to come out with us.

No. One.

Not two to be so easily discouraged, we went on our own to Montreal’s latest club, La Voûte. It’s in a bank’s old vault, hence the name.

We walk into this (albeit gorgeous) crowded club, and go straight to the bar for the mandatory first drinks/shots. We try to find a spot where we can wait for a bartender. We’re next to this large group of men, one of whom told us to move toward the end of the bar because that was their spot.

Now that I think about it, I should have gotten up on the bar on their spot to call the bartender. Unfortunately, we just moved away where there were less people. Now we’re next to a couple. The guy’s like a hawk preying on that bartender. As I’m slightly observing this and waiting for my turn, his date taps me on the shoulder and, smiling, tells me: “He’s next for drinks. Like, don’t try to get your drinks before.”

At this point, I don’t even think I want a drink because clearly these bartenders are legit spiking everyone’s drink with a healthy dose of paranoia.

But we finally get our shots of vodka (yuck) from a thankfully very normal, speedy, bartender (like too speedy if you catch my drift).

This is it. We're ready. We’re going to dance the rest of the night away.

Wrong. No one is dancing. Everyone is huddled around their drinks like they’re going to find the prophet at the bottom of their Grey Goose bottle. Except that couple from earlier: they’re making out. At least someone’s getting some.

But it’s all fine. We don’t need others to dance. We dance.

At some point, I looked around us. Men lined the walls of the club, simply sipping their drinks and looking at the crowd. Looking? Sorry, I mean dissecting. “Who can I sneak attack?”

It was like mating season was open for all. Clubs have always been like that but this was above and beyond anything I’ve ever seen.

I got separated from my friend at some point. As I was walking around to find her, this guy comes up to me and asks me to dance. I politely rejected him, telling him I was looking for my friend. He proceeded to follow me around the entire club. I’m not exaggerating. Every time I looked behind me he was there. I projected myself in the middle of a group of 6 buff men to lose him.

He found me at the end of the night, and I again zig-zagged myself out of his grasp. You’re not getting this mouse, hawk. Not this one. Not tonight.

The last times I went clubbing in Dublin, people actually danced. And it’s not like they’re not trying to hook up with beautiful people too. So what happened, Montreal? Did I not get the memo? I’m about to revoke your title as a party city because last night was not it.

But I’m full of shit, so you shouldn’t take my word for it too much.

Memorable moment of the night: Totally drunk texted the one dude I told myself I wouldn’t (duh). I texted him: “Hi.” But then I remembered that I didn’t want to text him anymore, so I took it back. Literally. Double texted him to say: “You know what? Forget that hi”

Take that. And I’m out. My head is pounding.

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