There is something about stepping foot at work Monday morning that makes my weekend feel like a distant memory. I often get asked “how was your weekend?” (I’m popular like that) and I literally struggle to remember what I did. Luckily, it does come back to me eventually. This Saturday was particularly notable. You guys, I lost my virginity! I kid. I kid. That would be a way more exciting post than the one I’m about to write. But along those lines, can you find your virginity? Just curious. Thoughts? Where was I going with that stupid joke? Oh right, to share with you all the new things I did this weekend.

I had thought I had the market covered on looking fine when I discovered fake lashes are an amazing touch to any formal event. They make your eyes pop and I’d highly recommend them to any lady. It was at the last wedding I attended that I was introduced to hair extensions. When a few of my friends brought their clip-on extensions with them and had the hairstylist put them in, I wanted to pull my thin, non-voluptuous hair out and tell it that I hated it. I of course, will not make this mistake again.

I went hair extension shopping on Saturday and once I was clipped, I was hooked. I was in a store on Wilshire and as the sales associate tried to match my correct color, a tattooed, awesomely blunt man came over and grabbed the reigns. He told the saleswoman that she had selected the wrong color, took the correct one and clipped the hair onto my head. Hoping to get some trade secrets, I asked the gentleman, who I correctly assumed was a stylist, if he knew of anywhere that sold cheaper extensions since I had a friend who had found them for $35 in New York. With disgust he told me, “you do not want thirty-five dollar hair on your head!” It turns out, as the saleswoman informed my friend, I was just styled by the great Chris McMillan, stylist to the stars, most notably (at least for me) known for creating the Rachel (while admittedly stoned)!

Sticking with the theme of spending money for things I shouldn’t be, my friend and I then decided to visit a Korean Foot Spa and get massages. I’ve had a normal massage, when you get nakey in private, but here, you were fully-clothed, in an open room filled with what looked like over-sized recliners. I sat next to my friend, and two Korean gentleman went to work on us. I felt a bit uncomfortable that they kept whispering to each other and giggling. I’ve gotten used to this happening at nail salons, but here, I felt weird. Was I doing something wrong? It’s my first time! 

I have no doubt that my masseuse could kill a man with his bare hands. He had me bend at the waist, while sitting, and went to town on my back. He every now and then would whisper what sometimes sounded like, “It’s OK?” and other times, “It’s OK.” The slight reflection makes all the difference, in that one is reassuring and the other sounds extremely rape-y. I should have said “NO,” but I thought “pain is good?” “Pain is good.” I was then turned around, and while I laid in the chair, he hit the feet. At this point, my eyes were covered. Who knew you could spend so much time massaging such little real estate. Each toe was given its own attention; some of it felt good and some of it felt like he was lightly nibbling on my toe with his front teeth. The biggest surprise was the end of the massage, when a background in contortion was apparently a prerequisite. This guy was pulling and twisting my legs in all different directions and if I wasn’t fully dressed in a room with other people, I would definitely have considered him inappropriately close to my treasure trove. Luckily, this torture only set me back $30 and the inability to workout the next day because my back was beyond sore.

My Saturday continued at an event called Glow Santa Monica. This was described on their website as “An all-night cultural experience featuring original commissions by artists that re-imagine Santa Monica Beach as a playground for thoughtful and participatory artworks.” Any opportunity to be barefoot instead of in heels on a Saturday night was attractive to me. We arrived at the beach and it was as if all of the artist got drunk the night before and were too hungover to show up to work the next day. What am I supposed to be looking at here? I didn’t get it. I did get that this was an event that should only be attended while on some mind-altering drugs and we were unfortunately not. There was a ring of fire, and then a line of people waiting to walk beneath it. If I liked waiting on lines, I’d be at a club. A few people were hula-hooping with glow in the dark hula-hoops and some bikes had light-up wheels, but the actual art exhibits were pretty sparse. There was a large tent, which looked like half of the globe at Epcot Center and a huge-ass line to walk inside of it it. And for the grand finale, there were a bunch of nets strung above a giant pit that people were standing in.
A woman looking into the pit behind me summed it up best, “this is the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” I agree, but what is a Saturday without taking risks and trying something new? It may as well be a Monday. 

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