Friday, June 27, 2008

Near Death Experience

I window-shopped and walked around Northern Ireland so much, I could no longer feel any sensation below my navel. That's right, I went up to the North to shop. Dublin had become so familiar and everyday, I had to cross national borders to find new stuff. There I was held at gun point.

Mental and emotional gun point. The police were not involved, nobody was hurt. But my composure sure did receive quite a beating.

Eager to find gems, but lacking the bank account to go to Van Cleef & Arpels, Kate, my other friend Margaret, and I went up to the North to search for clothing gems instead. The mission, had we chosen to accept it, was to check out the exotic and mystical kingdom of Belfast. However, our empty, grumpy stomachs allowed us to drive only as far as Newry. There we found a horse-shoe-shaped shopping gem, imaginatively called "The Outlet". 

Being the ever decisive person that I am, I would say that the Outlet was sort of OK. I find it annoying that you are able to pay in euro but you get your change in pounds.

Part of the reason for our out-of-country excursion was the fact that Margaret had just broken up, rather dramatically and silly-ly (but this I kept to myself), with their boyfriend, now only referred to as X. 

Two weeks ago, they shared a massive, all-comsuming, Catherine and Heathcliff, type of love, the type of love only a pair of horny, hormonal teenagers can have. Three days ago, it vanished. Voila!

This next sentiment just might make me sound a lil' bit shallow and superficial, but whatever. I never really liked X because he was sort of dull and not very pretty. 

Somewhere between Starbucks and Marks & Spencer, Margaret asked me a fatal question. Kate had never seen the guy, so she had been asking her what X looked like. Margaret turned to me and said, "Go on, tell her what he looks like."

I stared at the barrel of a loaded gun. 

I was blessed with a lot of skills and talents, but what I do not have is the ability to tell a believable lie. That, and humility. Just how do you tell your friend that you hate her boy-squeeze because he's dull and fugly?

I looked as if I had just been stopped by customs at Dublin Airport after a weekend of non-stop shopping in Hong Kong. I just sort of walked on, my mind slavishly working, deciding how to deal with this politically incorrect hot potato. 

When it comes to your friends, how do you stay politically correct? (God, I just sounded like an amateur Carrie Bradshaw there.)

I never did answer her, of course. Much thanks are due to the fashion gods for the luring bargains at DKNY. In retrospect, I think I could have handled that situation better, had I enough time and enough X to think about how to describe X.

Five hours later, I'm clicking on the "Publish Post" button to announce to the whole world just how shallow I am.

Just another day.

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