Sunday, October 11

Call me a fake, Sir. You can call me a fraud. You can spit on my french knickers. You can call me a whore.

I ventured out last night for a meet up with work colleagues.
Initially, it began as an idea for a small and humble gathering and excuse for a drink together, specifically because one of the girls at work is leaving at the end of next week. Either she is far more popular than I ever realized, or somebody at our place ignited the 'piss up on Saturday' fuse because there were about forty people who came out.

It took me a while to get around, but I made sure that I circulated as much as I could, taking some time to speak to pretty much everybody there, because, well, I'm the 'new guy'. I wanted to make the effort to speak to people, put a face to a name and generally have a nice, relaxing evening speaking with other people who work for the same Company.

I came away having learnt two things from last night.
Firstly; everybody, bar a small minority said that it's a really good Company to work for. This made me feel pretty good.
Secondly; everybody who I spoke with last night fell into either the 'gorgeous', 'lovely', 'beautiful' or 'enviably handsome' category. This made me feel....unworthy....out of my league.

The lovely girl who spent most of the night on her mobile, texting and calling her 'boyfriend'. I felt like she was unhappy. The girl who slipped down onto the floor under the influence of drink, flashing her knickers at everyone....I felt she was....a little worse for wear. The guy who looked like he was coked out of his face, taking another girl's digital camera and trying to take pictures 'up girl's skirts' and being all huggy and kissy. The guy who wasn't drinking and offered to take the camera guy home so he didn't make a complete fool of himself. The girl who had changed her career and became a tennis coach, something she'd always wanted to do. The girl who spent twenty minutes or so telling me about her father's recent funeral. The guy who's married to the girl who seems like she's way, way, way out of his league, and yet, they are ultimately happy. The girl who normally comes into our place of work dressed in scruffy dungarees, hair pulled back and face full of paint marks who becomes....well....stunning looking. Like a scene from Flashdance. Trust me, the list goes on and on....
And....oh yes, there appears to be a lot of 'inter department' touchy-feely-how's yer father things going on. It all feels a little....incestous.

It's the second time in a couple of weeks that I've felt like certain people are out of my league. Almost like, it doesn't matter how much like 'me' I am, it's never going to be enough. Even if it were a fairytale situation, where I swept a girl off her feet, rescued her from despair, and then took her hand in mine and led her away from all the stresses of life, even just for a moment. Even kissing her lips, because it felt like the most natural thing in the world, swept her away....stopped the world spinning even just for a split second.
I still felt completely out of my league. And that's only scratching the surface.

I've been distracted with tonight's post by Damien Rice and thoughts of Hannah Montana pyjamas. Yes, it's a tough life sometimes. But when the hair is up, the glasses are on and the tiny t-shirt is worn....everything seems ok.

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