Sunday thoughts

Last night I had to pick up my girlfriends from the Reef (local pub/nightclub). I had been out to dinner beforehand. The plan was to pop in for a quick drink, debrief on the night and drive everyone home.

I pulled off a killer reverse parallel park right in front (obviously I was totes sober and feeling pretty cool in my Mum’s new car), strolled up the stairs only to be stopped by a very tall young lad. He was probably about as old as my nephew… 19 tops. Nothing major was said, just ‘Hi, my name is Dick” (I have forgotten his name, so let’s just call him Dick) I had my eye on the girls (no specs on, couldn’t really see much at all), sort of muttered back a very hesitant ‘um, yeah, hi, please let me through’, pushed through, got to the girls and exhaled. Few minutes later, Dick took it upon himself to point out the fact that I didn’t answer him “nicely” enough and asked what was my name etc etc. He was a nice person, but no doubt entertaining his gang of mates by confidently harassing us older ladies.

Dude. I knew what you were doing. I could see your mates snickering and giggling behind you. Ha. Ha. Really, I did not mind. Let them have a little early evening fun before they drink themselves stupid and probably get knocked back from every girl they speak to because they can hardly string two words together and their breath totally reeks. Go for it. Dick was speaking to us very politely. He is probably a very nice boy drunk or not. Off he went… have a good night young fella. Namaste.

So after a quick run down of the evening, last wine, a brief tour around the nightclub that we practically lived at in the 90’s, it was time to head home. As we were leaving Dick stopped all of us and began talking to the girls. Conversation was based on the fact that we were all old enough to be their mothers blah blah blah. Meanwhile, one of Dick’s mates, quite a handsome man child, (not in a pervy old lady way just a general ‘what a cutie, he will break some hearts’ kind of way) told me that I had just missed out on a round of fireballs (yeah, I don’t know what they are either. In my day it was just plain old tequila). “Oh, what a shame” I said. I was smiling. Generally happy. My resting bitch face was not on, I was having a laugh… then…this happened…

 “You’re fat. You need to work it off”

What. The. Fuck.


What the actual fuck?

Now, I know this man child is fresh and has yet to live the many years that I have. I know that he most probably has not discovered the art of being ‘nice’. I know that he was saying it to get a laugh from his mates (which was awkward because they were not listening and the whole exchange was truly between just me and him). Um yeah, what the? I am sure my face said it all? Why little boy, why? Why would you say something so unnecessary? It didn’t hurt me. Becoming an adult has taught me how to accept the fact that some people are simply arsholes and there is nothing that I can do about that. It just left me a bit bamboozled. I mean yes. Yes little boy, I am fat. Thanks for pointing out the obvious. It’s not news to me. It’s not something that you need to remind me of. Why on earth did you feel the need to point it out when we were conversing about fireball shots? Now, if we were talking about the fact that I had just polished off a double scoop chocolate fudge ice cream sunday, I could kinda get where you were going with that. It would still make you a giant arshole but at least it would have made sense.

I wish I had bounced back with a mummy lecture but I could only manage to pull a WTF face before I realised that young Dick was back on another “let’s embarrass the old lady” mission which involved stroking my arms and shoulders… possibly heading for an “accidental” boob brush. Eww. I got my fat arse out of there, fast.

I’m speaking for myself, but I know plenty of women that will totally agree with me. Whether you are a single mum or part of a loving partnership, whether you have young children, older children or no children, whether you are fat or skinny, happy or sad, it can be a bit of big deal to have a night out on the town when you reach my age. I am 42 years old. Single Mum. Two kids. Personally, I’m in my extra stretchy flanel pyjamas as soon as that sun goes down on a winters night. Netflix is my boyfriend. When it comes to having a night out with grown ups it kinda throws me out of my comfort zone. What will I wear? How’s my hair? wedges or flats? Is this night worth a horrifically painful moustache wax? Spanx or comfort? You know what I mean, right?

Dear Dick’s fireball friend. You could have easily ruined my night. I’m tough, I can take it but please don’t feel the need to break the fat news to girls that are your age, ladies my age, or any woman/man/human for that matter. It’s just mean. Your mother would or should be mortified. Does it make you feel better about yourself? Does it make you happy to hurt someone? Don’t be that guy. You can still be the funny guy, but don’t be the mean guy. You may think it’s cool now, but it’s not. This world is a tough enough place for all of us, why add to the yuck? Say something nice instead, it will take you so much further in life, and guess what? It will make YOU feel better about YOU.

Yes. I remember boys like you. In fact, I loved boys like you when I was your age. I know it’s highly likely that my Bella will love boys like you in a few years time. You are gorgeous and you know it. You are popular, confident, oh so funny, but sometimes mean… an occasional arshole. Sure she will laugh with you just like I did, but, inside, you will be breaking off a little piece of her heart. And when Bella gets to my age, no matter what size she is or how confident she has become, she will still feel that little kick in the guts when somebody like you says something like that.

Please hurry up and learn the value of kindness. Be nice. That’s all it takes.

(Peace out little fuckers, hope you had a great night)



Rachel - Beautifully said Sunshine. And we will teach our girls to respect themselves and our boys to be respectful. xx

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