Saturday Night: Prerecorded

I am 24 years old. Saturday night by this age's standard should be a blast, one I should look forward to all week, but it isn't the case at all.

Every Saturday night, I promise myself, this time it is going to be different. Every time, every single time. And every time, it is like a cycle repeating itself, a circle orbiting around my aura.

Saturday night had always been party night for me. And since I am an old fashioned classical kind of girl, I need to wake very early on Saturday to make it all happen by nightfall.

By waking up early, I mean 10:00 a.m. And yes, that is early for me, especially since I have been on an obligatory vacation for almost 3 months now.

It begins with showering and breakfast while watching Jeopardy or some other morning game show, and then I am off to the beautician. After having had my nails done and my eyebrows tweaked, I go straight to the hairdresser's and wait for hours before I get my turn to drive him crazy while trying to explain to him how I would like my hair done this week. It is really weird; apparently all women have a very clear vision of what they want, but somehow always fail to communicate their 7 days hairdo planning to the person responsible for making that visualization come true. And it almost never comes true, even with the best of the best hairdressers.

When I am done, it is already afternoon and I head home for a quick lunch before spending a couple of hours choosing an outfit while nagging continuously: "I have nothing to wear!", although I know that a VERY HUGE FIRE would be the only reason to leave me without anything to wear. I have closet upon closet full of clothes of all shapes and colors, stuff you couldn't even imagine, things only an Egyptian belly dancer or a Hawaiian Hula dancer might get the chance to wear, and not often even.

Clothes chosen, it is makeup time. It usually takes me anywhere between 10 minutes and 2 hours, depending on the level of inspiration and the degree to which my hands are shaking due to the over-consummation of caffeine and tobacco.

Another half an hour to add the final touches, choose a belt if necessary, accessories, shoes and a purse to make it all look harmonious and effortless.

Off I go to Sassine Square then for a new dose of caffeine and tobacco in an effort to stay awake and get in the mood of seeing people.

Between 10:00 and 11:00 p.m., one of two things happens:

1- Either I don't really feel in the mood anymore. I cancel my plans and spend the night, makeup, hair and all, reading over a cup of coffee.
2- Either I convince myself that this time it is going to be real fun, I mean how many awful parties could one possibly attend? It must come to an end eventually, and tonight, yes tonight might be the time I start enjoying my Saturday nights. And so I go, and:

Horror of horrors, it is all happening again! No I am not dreaming. No this isn't a joke. No this isn't a prank. This is another classical Saturday night: I start it with a good mood and high hopes, hopes for what you may ask, I am not sure. A good time? Meeting new interesting people? Meeting that special someone perhaps? According to my pathetic experience, none of these things are even remotely likely to happen on a Saturday night. A good time, barely any. The conversations with friends and the dizzying shots would count as the peak of the party, and the rest is bogus. New interesting people: new maybe, but interesting, long shot. A special someone: do special people really exist?? I have very serious doubts about this.

It is now 9:13 p.m. on a Saturday night. I have been through all my Saturday routine, and am now sipping my coffee and smoking my Davidoffs at Sassine Square. An hour or so to go before the last prerecorded part of my Saturday night starts yet once again.