Race day. I’ll just get straight into it shall I? What an interesting exercise in anthropology. Ladies and men, strutting around like peacocks, with their preened feathers and bright canary yellow suits. Hmm …
I must admit, placing an elaborate facilitator on my head got me into the strutting mood. Because I just looked that good. Plus, anything that costs what you would spend on food for the week is pretty darn special in my books. Even if its extended design poked anyone in the eye whom I leaned in to talk to … sigh.
Now that I am removed from the actual experience of being at the races, I feel as though I can reflect on it like any pompous, balding anthropologist would. Why pompous and balding is an important factor, I have no idea. I’m just trying to set the tone.
Firstly, fashions in the field – people walking around in a circle holding numbers, parading their fashions like a bunch of overly primped poodles at a dog show – is quite the amusing image. I half expected the judges in the middle to start feeling them up to see if their bodies were proportional. The winner walking away with a big blue ribbon stuck to their behind.
Nothing against these ladies, as they were, indeed, far more fashionable and graceful than I. Which leads me to my next observation. Why do we wear ridiculously high and uncomfortable shoes on such an unstable ground as grassy slopes? ‘Because my legs look darn sexy in a pair of platform wedges, that’s why!’ Yet, on the other hand, make me look like a hopeless drunk even when I’m completely sober. Especially over uneven ground, where I nearly landed on my face and nearly took out my mum as well. Luckily, by sheer will and determination to not fall over in front of a bunch of people, that included members of the police, did I regain my balance. Phew. Hopefully not many people saw that frightfully hideous display!
I literally looked like this … you really do feel like your ankles are going to snap off …
Next observation. You cannot trust fortune telling animals. Or maybe you can, just not certain types of animals. I mean obviously the ladybug that landed on my race program was no Paul the Octopus, if you get what I’m saying. ‘Oh, it’s a sign! We must bet on this horse!’ … horse comes last … curse you ladybug, you mischievous sprite you!
Final observation. Your image of yourself may not match up to what others see. In other words, middle aged ladies in bathrooms can be rather bitchy, and look their nose down at your botched fake tan job. ‘I was merely inquiring to my friend the origin of these little white dots on my back, and that they weren’t some rare contracted skin disease, it wasn’t an open invitation for you to start speculating on my tanning habits! I swear, it was just a little tanning cream on my back, so people weren’t blinded by the fluorescence that is skin that hasn’t seen the sun in three months, the rest is real! Why am I defending myself to you? Woman, get outta my grill. I AM NOT AN ANIMAL!’
Or a bright orange Oompa Loompa for that matter. Because, I definitely saw some of those at the races. Not to be bitchy or anything. It’s an exercise in anthropology. I swear, I’m merely making observations.
Even if they are with a self-satisfied smirk …