How to Attend Sidewalk Brunch in Last Night's Club Clothes
Feliz Día de Los Muertos, AKA All Saint's Day, AKA the only day of the year when it is possible to observe bleary eyed humans pridefully striding (or walk of shame-ing, I don't know your life) back home from wherever they've been, dressed as ninja turtles and glitter coated rainbows and other Halloween what-not. Perhaps this beautiful, cloudy, Day of the Dead you yourself are slinking home, coat thrown over last night's Harley Quinn outfit, startled by the choices that have led you here, the bright light of morning, and the fact that it is a Tuesday (in which case your Head Peach issues you a virtual high five. Truly advanced work!).
Or perhaps you are merely remembering Hallowed Eves past, whose exploits occurred (more reasonably) on a weekend, and landed you in bed beside, say, a Sterling Archer you'd had your eye on for some time. When, as it turned out, this Archer had also been eyeballing your Flapper Girl from afar, and so you found yourself still in bed at noon, having spent all morning giggling and canoodling. Perhaps you too have found yourself in a situation similar to the one I found myself in then - hungry for brunch, knowing there is no food in the house, and forced choose between ending your day with this shiny sweet boy, and leaving the house in the shiny, short dress and 6 inch heels you came over here in last night.
My friends, whether you are dressed for Halloween as a Gatsby Goddess, or just dressed for Da Club on any regular non-holiday weekend, there's only one real choice here:
Why squander a chance to prolong an encounter you are thoroughly enjoying, simply for fear of some strangers' side eye? What's an hour and a half of mild embarrassment against a whole afternoon of further Netflix and Chilling?
It's gonna take some effort.
But here's how to do it (i.e., here's how I did it) without dying to death of mortification.
Is this your dream brunch outfit? NOPE. Is this the only outfit option you have? Yes. Yes it is. Ok then. You must accept that you are leaving the house this way.
I mean, it was fine last night, wasn't it? You're still dressed, aren't you? Those bitches on Sex and the City went to brunch in tiny dresses all the time, didn't they? Maybe you are just cosmopolitan and fancy as fuck. Maybe you have hella high arches and have to wear heels all the time for medical reasons. These people don't know your life.
Maybe the dude you are with has put on basketball shorts, a hoodie and a backwards hat, in an attempt to look as much as possible like a hungover hobo. You can try to encourage him to wear jeans, at least...and like, I dunno, maybe a polo? by saying something like, "what the hell, dude" and gesturing pointedly to demonstrate the discrepancy in your outfits; but you should be prepared for the possibility he will maybe just laugh and say something like, "people are going to think I bought you with money from my construction job."
Slap, or don't slap, either choice is valid. Just be sure to launch a couple of zingers back about how no one would ever think that, cause you a high class ho, and he could obviously never afford you if he had a construction job. Maybe you will find the pure absurdity of the remark, and the situation (cause, I mean, he's not wrong) actually kindof hilarious.
And/or maybe having to consider the idea that people might slut shame you for being an actual professional, will cause you to confront your indignation that a sex worker might not be allowed to enjoy a meal al fresco without suffering harassment; and help enflame your feminist rage at the idea that anyone might scorn you for simply being a woman out in the world who has obviously just fucked a dude, with whom she's now eating pancakes.
Why does it feel gross for people to see you on the street, rocking a skin tight dress, and (correctly) assume you look like this because you just had the sex.
Well, for the same reason your Lyft driver's eyebrows shoot up into his brain and he looks like he wants to high five Hangover Hobo Eggplant when the two of you slide across his seats.
What feels gross is being looked at as if you are a pretty object that had been acquired. Or perhaps, a valuable bauble that has been "gotten" through trickery or other flavor of Pickup Artistry by the schlubbily attired gentleman sitting across from you.
Whether or not you are an empowered being who freely and happily chose to arrive at this point, the side-eye you are feeling (or afraid of feeling) is being launched at you based on the belief that girls are supposed to distribute passes to their vaginas only extremely discerningly, and you clearly haven't discerned your way into bringing a change of clothes. Shade.
Consider the difference in how it might feel if you were both slurping java and munching bacon in sweatpants. It might be just as clear you two had just banged, but it wouldn't feel as vulnerable. Because the side eyers might assume that if you have a pair of sweats at his place (or he has at yours), then you are in a relationship. Which means you can be considered "this man's woman", so it's "ok" for your Peach to distribute sex to this Eggplant, which is entitled to "his woman's" body. So NBD, no shade need be thrown and you may brunch away undisturbed.
FUCK ALL THAT.
You are super happy you hooked up with Hangover Hobo Eggplant! He is hot! He is into you! He is putting it down so well you need to break for bacon!
Stand there in your freakum dress and reject this bullshit notion that boys are supposed to acquire belt notches, (which, we can tell you did, so, high five from the cabbie) and girls are supposed to protect their chastity, where all their value is located (which, girl, we know you didn't so side-eye for you from these imagined onlookers).
Lean in to the fact that everyone knows what you've been up to. Take that table that is literally right there on the sidewalk. The weather is beautiful. You need not care.
For you are accepting ZERO fucking side eye today.
HIGH FIVES however, will be graciously collected.
Of course they know these are last night's clothes. Everyone knows these are last night's clothes. So what. Does the waiter act like a weirdo as he serves your sartorially mismatched table? No he does not. Cause he does not give a shit. Plus he's probably seen six things more strange than you two already today and it's only 12 fucking 30.
If anyone on the sidewalk should knowingly smirk at you, accept this as the nonverbal high five you know it must be, and smugly smirk back.
These people must be proud of you for bagging a hot dude. Accept no other explanation. En plus, they probably wish they could borrow even a flake of your badassery, knowing they could never brunch blithely like you, utter awesomeness all hanging out on display, nary a fuck to give.
Hide like a bitch.
Cause there are limits to everything.
And you're gonna need way more caffeine for that.