“Well, that was Stupid! I Can’t Believe I Made it Through that One Alive.”

Do you ever stop sometimes, look at your life decisions and think “Well, that was stupid! I can’t believe I made it through that one alive.” Have you ever had that thought before making your boneheaded move?  As I tear Betty apart for her ineptness and lack of foresight, I am beginning to wonder if I should crawl down off my soap box and take a good look at my own actions.

Let me take you back in time.  A year ago, I pulled a klassic Klassy Kass.  My first morning in London I woke up not in my best friends flat, but beside some boy.  I had twenty quid in my pocket, somewhere in London (which I found out later was an area called Wapping. Seriously, that is what it is called.  That is what my parents used to say the moment before I was beat), with no phone, and wearing what could only be described as a disco ball of a top.  For the next six hours after I left said boy’s flat, I performed what might be considered the most epic walk of shame ever, or as I like to consider it, the REPEATED walk of shame.  I wandered the 410 acre park looking for my supposed friends and repeatedly passed the same family with their young impressionable children.  I could tell I was quickly becoming a life lesson: “Britney, do you see that girl?  Do you want to be her one day, roaming the park in a disco ball top with her dirty underwear in her pocket? No, I don’t think you do. Boys are bad, remember that.” It was only through some extraordinary means that I finally located said friends at a local pub, at which point they declared “It is like The Hangover.  We lost you all day.”  To which I responded quite pointedly, “No, it is not like the fucken Hangover.  In The Hangover they LOOK for their fucken friend!” I digress. Back to the point.  I was in a strange city, off my rocker intoxicated, and I had no means of communication. Definitely a “Well, that was stupid! I can’t believe I made it through that one alive” moment!

I have always said whores should not stand in glass houses and throw stones.  And well, I am a whore and I definitely have pitched a few rocks in Betty’s direction over this Iranian arms dealer online dating fiasco.  Maybe she is correct - maybe you should leave yourself open to possibility and trust.  At least that is what I have to believe because well… I have just booked a three day vacation to Nice, France with Boy from Wapping. How did this come about?  After the repeated walk of shame, Wapping and I met up a few times while I was still in London and discovered that besides wanting to sleep with each other, we had some things in common. As a result, when I got home to my native land, we emailed once in a while, and as the year went by, our emailing became quite frequent.  And  the nature of these emails were likely not what you expected.  They were pure banter and taking the piss as the English say.  Never any suggestion that we might actually like each other; more that we found each other amusing and it made the workday go by a bit faster.  And through a quick email on my part, after his bitching about wanting to go away someplace warm, I wrote:

Sunning in Spain sounds nice.  Actually sunning anywhere! I am going to

suggest something hoping that you pause, breath, and don't go all

narcissistic via email on me. I should be in London somewhere in the

week of the 19th for at least three weeks.  I know Easter weekend is

in there and I could possibly go somewhere fun. Now breath, keep your

composure!  Not proposing marriage and babies (I fear you may be

genetically disposed to producing gingers and that is simply

unacceptable) - I just like the beach.  And if you are good maybe I will

let you even share a room with me.  I am sure most rooms are equip with

lovely couches.

Shortly thereafter, I had a plane ticket booked to Nice with a boy I have exchanged emails with for the past year discussing random stupid people in our respective offices.  And I’m not even nervous?  That is probably the stupidest part of all this.  Should I not be contacting the Canadian Embassy in Nice to let them know if I go missing?  Getting sold into human trafficking is not my idea of a great holiday.  But no, I am embarking, like Betty, full tilt into this without even blinking.  And I just pray I do not fall down a rabbit hole, like Betty, into a strange world of cash in zip-lock bags, multiple names, and over- zealous emotion.  And yes, I am going to pitch another rock: there were huge signs, with glowing neon lights for Betty and her arms dealer which my situation in no way has.  So I am throwing caution to the wind.

I feel I should also give an update on Betty’s situation.  After breaking up politely with the arms dealer Betty was SHOWERED with gifts and flowers almost every day for 2 weeks, including a pair of these.  Then the paper arrived at our house Sunday morning.  There was Betty’s picture with a poem underneath it, declaring his love for her.  I believe it was at this point that Betty called the cops.  Shockingly, they already had his number.  I was floored to realize this. NOT.  I guess he had done the same thing to another girl last year, but when the cops called him, he stopped.  And that seemed to work for Betty until this week when more flowers arrived with a few texts saying he was having some earrings and a grand delivered to the house. Betty has decided we are going to Vegas with it!

So, as I board the plane to London, I wonder if I am a cautionary tale as Betty has become?  Or will I be that story that girlfriends tell each other when they are reaching for hope?