Date Night
Zara Top |
| Topshop Bomber | & Other Stories Clutch | H&M Shoes
I went on a date the other night. It was at some nice bar in Chelsea.
Alright, it wasn’t my date. It was my housemates. So yes, I datecrashed- with her permission of course- what kind of hopeless (desperate) romantic do you take me for? It was a boring Sunday night and we needed something to do; one the girls had a date so my other housemate and myself thought it would be an excellent idea for us all to go.
So we did. The undatable of the three would just sit on the other side of the bar drinking away pretending like we had absolutely no clue who this couple were until the poor unsuspecting bloke left, leaving the three of us to join back up and polish off another bottle of wine whilst have deep discussions about something like politics and the meaning of life.
Dating in your twenties is weird. Dating in your twenties in London is weirder.
In such a big city with an endless stream of men you can do anything you really want and it doesn’t particularly matter because nobody actually cares.
You can join your friends on their dates without their date ever knowing because it’s funny.
You can go out with Mr. Tom, Dick and Harry all in one week because nobody cares about Mr. Right.
You can lie and tell them you’re a ballet dancer because they it’s unlikely they will actually know anything about ballet anyway.
You can even wear a skirtsuit despite the fact men probably wont get it (“why didn’t you just buy a dress?”, because it looks chic, and what do they know anyway?
(I know, two posts in a row rocking a skirt-suit. I can’t help it. They are just far too adorable.)
Your twenties is time for working hard, having fun, wearing skirtsuits and not taking yourself- or anyone else for that matter- too seriously.
