Love at the Big Top

Remember when I left Egypt in June, telling everyone that when I returned I would be a different, better Megan (read: wash my hair more than twice a week, wear mascara). I had met Injustice Megan in the week before I left and it terrified me. I saw what my life would be if I somehow veered horribly off my righteous path of awesomeness. Injustice Megan has all those unfortunate tendencies that I know I possess but try to avoid: loud, unfunny, unkempt hair, dresses only in t-shirts and jeans, talks too long about things no one wants to be listening to, and on the job front, over-dedicating oneself to something completely lame, not realizing its lame. And so, to prevent this horrible future I made a declaration: I, Megan E. Detrie, am going to get classy.

I went back to the USA for a month, got a haircut, bought a couple new shirts and my first set of decent heels. I was ready for Classy Megan to start making its way into my lifestyle more often.

Sadly, it’s been over a month back in Egypt and twice this week I went to work wearing the same clothes from the day before, I slept on a floor Tuesday, and I ate some spilled oatmeal off a coffee table. Today, I’m not even wearing my clothes, I’m wearing my co-workers, whose couch I passed out on after a party. I started out strong, but I’ve slipped. I’ll say it now, washing my hair is a lot of hassle, I know its chin-length and everything, but man, shampoo, who needs it? You have to lather and er.. condition. Hassle! I still haven’t mastered eye make-up or anything, but I didn’t think I looked so bad. Sure, I’m a little scruffy (read: homeless looking) but I own a skirt from the Banana Republic outlet, that should count for something.

But the continued un-classiness was made painfully clear to me last night. I went to a party in a dress and heels. Did the whole eye makeup thing, styled my hair (it takes three minutes, but somehow I still can’t bother) put the bottle of whiskey in the purse (just in case, you know) showed up and people started crying. Yes, I was that beautiful.

I knew about 70% of the partygoers, and I couldn’t pass a person without getting spun, complimented, or flat out told I asked by I always look so bad if I can look like this. I think I’ve backed myself into a corner. Now the nice-looking thing is no longer a fantasy, but an expectation. Sadly, while I proved I can look good, I’m still a loud, obnoxious drunk. So, I guess unless you define classy as “challenging an Ethiopian to a wrestling contest” or “opening beer bottles with my teeth” or “being really, really sweaty” I still have a ways to go before I make good on my declaration.

I figured I’d try out some of that old Megan charm, but now with heels!, and sidled up to one of the more attractive men at the party, a British guy. It immediately became clear that I had made a mistake when he told me “Well, you know the Egyptian circus? I’ve been living with them for the past four months.” The circus. Not just any circus, but the Egyptian circus. Judging from what the rest of the country’s entertainment in that price bracket looks like (unenthusiastic belly-dancing, the pyramid rides on horses with open sores, bribing the guard at the zoo to let you hold a tiger or vulture) I can only imagine living at the circus would involve a lot of accidental deaths, and spending time with bearded, but hijab’d, women.

To be fair, I bet it’s pretty awesome. Imagine inviting a girl back to your place: you make her some coffee, while your roommate brushes the lions. It sounds sexy. Ultimately the guy was more interested in me for my job contacts than my, ahem, other assets.

Leave it to me to go out, try to pick up a carnie ... and fail.

I’m wearing makeup today, so I’m awarding myself +6 classy points for wearing makeup to work, but I’m taking away 4 classy points from my overall classy score for the makeup being makeup I slept in and then left without washing it off.