I Blame The Belt

Famous last words?

“This belt will do”.

No Kirsty, it won’t.

On the way to the party, the first mini explosion occurred. The press studs of the belt snapped open and I felt a release – no big deal, a minor wardrobe malfunction, but I couldn’t get them to click back in properly.

We were at the gates of the compound going through the security ritual. “Whose house?” followed by “Which number?” and then “Can I see your ID”. I’d look up intermittently to answer the questions with G, only to return to fumble with my belt.

“You’re going to have to help me when we get out of the cab, I can’t see what I’m doing” The belt looped inside of the dress and sat just underneath my bust, the DD’s were working against me.

I scanned the front of the house looking for a dark little corner where I could sort myself out.  G immediately got to the job, leaning in towards my boobs while I offered a spectacularly unhelpful narration. As he leaned in to get a better look at the mechanics of the belt, I urged “Can you see it? Can you get it to go in? I can’t get it to go in” I looked up to see a bemused onlooker walking by. Well hello there, we haven’t met, we’re Mr and Mrs Classy.

The party was in full swing, waiters hovered with finger food, glasses were filled before they’d had a chance to empty and I was happily chatting away with a group of friends. My glass was firmly in my hand when my belt exploded the second time. Mid story, my story, a story that meant four sets of eyes were pointed in my direction, I coughed. Snap – my belt flew open. The force was enough that it hit my arm, spilling wine from my glass, an uncontrollable squeak came from the direction of my mouth.

“What was that?” someone asked.

“Oh, I said looking down at the puddle of wine at my feet – oh, um, my belt came undone”

I looked like I’d wet my pants. I looked like I’d coughed and wet my pants.

As the night went on it just got worse. Bend, snap. Laugh, snap. Hello, snap. Great to see you, snap.

More wine, more jokes. I was getting classier by the minute.

Finally someone said “just take it off”

“But it’ll leave two gaping holes in my dress”

“Just take it off”

And then somehow the belt became the focal point of the evening, at one stage G had it wrapped around his neck.

“Well hello there Michael Hutchence” me + wine = inappropriate and unfunny jokes.

I woke up this morning with my own series of snaps. Little explosions of memories. Remember when you called that girl Fiona and then apologized because she wasn’t Fiona and then went on to make absolutely no sense on why you’d called her Fiona because Fiona looks like Keira Knightly but of course she doesn’t look like Keira Knightly and I’ll just keep talking and talking while you stare at me like I’m completely deluded which I obviously am because I’ve began clutching at my belt while stepping away slowly.

Remember when you were laughing and telling your hysterical anecdote about interrupted morning sex and the spring roll flew out of your hand and hit the arm of the mans jacket?

Remember when the teenage boys were constantly shining the laser at your chest from the house next door and finally you looked up and gave them the bird, only to meet the neighbours later and discover the light was coming from their twelve year old daughter’s room.

I blame the belt.

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