Sunday, April 09, 2006

Spending before thinking

I took Readerdroid out for dinner last night. We stumbled across a place called Casa Galicia on Ste. Denis street hidden among the bongo shops and sushi bars. It had a wonderfully intimate atmosphere with a traditional decor. We ordered tapas for two (chorizo and calamares) followed by individual plates of paella. So good. It's times like these that you come to understand what it really feels like to be fed right. As we talked, flamenco dancers made their way to the makeshift stage in the center of the room. These ruffled goddesses performed for about half an hour, bludgeoning the floor with their feet, perpetually contorting their battered bodies in a war of wills. It was an intensely hypnotic performance, utterly fantastic. And I, of course, drummed and clapped along because I have no shame and am easily moved. Go ahead and judge me.

"Lily, we're the youngest people here," Readerdroid whispered across the table.

Looking around, she was right. Everyone there were strictly investment banker-types with presumably investment banker-sized salaries. The food was delicious, the service was top-notch, but the bill came to be three figures. Oh, how lucky I am to be able to live outside my means without repercussion - I'm one spoiled sucker.

It wasn't until I got home that I discovered this place is hailed as "one of the best Spanish restaurants in North America." What the hell? Am I allergic to being reasonable? How come everything I display an interest in ends up being something of unnecessary luxury? It's like me and high-maintenance were born to breed together. I feel sorry for my parents. They lead such modest lives, yet here I am, cursed with expensive taste! O noble fool! A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear. That is, unless you're me and gush over knick-knacks at thrift stores and realize you've again selected the most expensive item in the shop. (Or that time I walked straight to "the perfect shoe," oohing and ahhing over the craftsmanship, until I was subsequently informed that it was made by Balenciaga with an AmEx Centurion-worthy pricetag of just over eight-hundred dollars. Thanks, but I'll settle for Jesus's sandals.) The irony of ironies is that I'm never attracted to men who can manage a lifestyle similar if not more extravagant than my own. Instead, I hold out for guys who can't tell their elbows from their knees because halved coconuts come in only one size.


A single glass of sangria brings me a throbbing buzz; I have no resistence to alcohol at all:

"What were you saying, Lily?"

"Oh man, I forgot. It's, like, stuck between my mental unibrow."

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