me fair lady

Yes. Another weekend hit me in the face. And, as usual, I had nothing to do, no plans at all. Until yesterday –a guy from my office asked me to accompany him to the racecourse. One of our client owns a stud farm.
It was supposed to be a formal occasion, so I donned my little summer dress and looked absolutely fabulous.
I pretended I owned one of the horses and elegantly clapped when it raced – and spoke loudly of its winnings. Needless to say, the guy with me regretted taking me entirely.
I’ve never been to the races, so this was fascinating. I realized that there’s a certain pleasure that goes with dressing up all good ‘n pretty on a Sunday afternoon. I attended the high tea afterward also, and I wore my sunglasses throughout – I was pretending to be someone who didn’t want to be recognized – Incognito, as I told my colleague.
Nobody cared if I was ‘cognito’ anyway – either way, it was fun to pretend.

Some facts about the races and life in general:

I thought the racecourse would be crawling with young eligible stud-farm owners, whom I could rake in and start a stud-farm of my own, if you know what I mean (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) Unfortunately, there were only old bookies and older stud farm owners – and although it did cross my mind that I could be an Anna Nicole and marry a rich old man and get all his money… I also thought, it was important to have standards.

Indian women are so much more attractive than the paunchy, old farts they have on their arm. While I was stuffing my face with finger food at the high-tea, my companion was having a visual treat of all the PYT’s that flocked the place. He even saw a bunch of, what he termed as, “yummy mummies”.

I am one of the guys. Even in a pretty little summer dress and a little bag, with my hair all up in a French bun, I am one of the guys. My colleague slapped me on the arm several times to point out a hot chick. This is very bad news. Even in my dolled up state I am a buddy. (He only said I was looking elegant when I prompted him in the car)

Men who own horses dress badly. Unless they are the sons of men who own horses, then they dress like something out of a Chirag Din ad (read even worse) And, if you’re not betting, a horse race is boring – except for the part when they gallop past you. See how this little metaphor translates wonderfully to life as well?

Thank heavens I did not wear a hat. Apparently, they only wear hats at the Derby. Imagine how lunatic I would look dolled up in a hat at some random race! (This is not a fact, I just thought about it)

All men suck. Oh come on, I wouldn’t be myself if I didn’t grumble a little on my blog, now would I?

Anyway, it is way past my bedtime and I have had a tiring day at the races. Pretending you’re rich is a tough job. Sunday was good and Monday promises to be better – it’s a holiday. Three days of blissful R&R.

And then came Tuesday. Sigh.