Song lyrics and life lessons.

I’ve always been a black & white kind of girl and not in the Michael Jackson kind of way. I like things to be one way or the other, never in between. I like my hair really, really long or short, plans to be decided or non-existent, friends to be there unconditionally or to be un-friended on Facebook. And I’ve never been any flavour of fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants. Partially because I was raised that way and partially because I never actually wear pants anymore.

That last fact might also be part of the reason I had a run-in with the police last week.  And no, not because I was walking down the street in my underwear or anything.

Last week M and I went to the movie premiere of Textuality, care of the lovely Skinny Dip. The movie was pretty cute [regardless of what people might say], the company was great, half of Twitter was there [which gave me a delusional sense of inclusion], and we got to meet Jason Lewis aka Smith Jerrod aka the Absolut Hunk. We got dressed up, got some $8 waters, and spent the night like we used to when she worked at Women’s Post and I didn’t carry a work Blackberry around like an extension of my hand.

It was nice to go out and be social for a change. It was nice to have a night away from having to constantly reassure people that they’re pretty and smart and that things will all work out in the end. And it was even nicer to go to a club downtown I’ve never even heard of and feel like I actually wanted to be at home in bed.

It was nice to realize that despite all the glitz and the glamour that engulfs the socialite lifestyle, that I am content with being hard-working and humble and having a bank account with a balance I can occasionally count on my fingers and toes.

Depending on how many pairs of $100 shorts I buy from Aritzia that week.

But going out after a movie and after a bar and realizing I actually wanted to be at home meant that no matter how I got home, I’d be going home alone and I’d be going home in the dark.

Normally, the night version of Toronto doesn’t really scare me. I’ve been grabbed by strange men on the street, I’ve had penises rammed up against me on streetcars [okay one man and one penis on one streetcar, but it still happened]; I’ve had my fair share of “I should maybe start carrying my personal alarm in my hand instead of in the bottom of a rammed full Lululemon bag” encounters because chances are when I’m being raped and pillaged on the street, my attacker is not going to pause momentarily while I grab the alarm from the very bottom of my purse.

But when you have a van make a U-turn to creep, slowly down the street beside you as you walk until it stops to watch you walk into your apartment building and then sits there for 5 minutes, presumably to watch until a light comes on and they can pinpoint which exact apartment you live in….

I told you I was dramatic.

And I absolutely called the police. And the dispatcher absolutely made me cry. And when 2 police officers showed up 45 minutes later, I absolutely answered the door with makeup all over my face, house keys drawn and ready to fight, and I absolutely invited them inside and offered them tea.

Because despite being possibly stalked, I’m still an impossibly good hostess.

LOVE.LOVE.LOVE. pinkcrush. xxoo