I've been actively exercising my sassy streak for the past two weeks or so now. Let me just cut straight to the chase here, in true sassy style, and tell you that it hasn't gone very well for me. At all.
This whole rigmarole stemmed from my recent altercation with public speaking (see here for the full horror). In the days following the whole palava, a period I like to refer to as The Aftermath, I decided that my personality was simply too genteel to handle the passive aggressive stares of forty plus students. I went through a watered down version of the five stages of grief, albeit experiencing denial and anger rather more forcefully than acceptance. In fact I still haven't quite reached acceptance - rendering a student blind due to exuberant use of a laser pointer takes more than two weeks to come to terms with let me tell you. During this time of reflection though I did manage to devise a plan for future success. I decided that in order to conquer my demons I would need a serious attitude reform. Snap snap.
I decided that I was no longer going to sit back and allow life to just happen, meekly accepting whatever it threw my way. No, I was going to readjust my mindset, up my confidence levels, be more badass. I was going to go and grab life by the proverbials. (See last week I would have used a rather more descriptive expression here, but as I have reverted to my normal mode of operation I can't seem to type it without my cheeks turning an arresting shade of crimson.) I was going to weave the new 'tude into every aspect of my life. Full hardcore dedication.
I resolved that before embarking on my journey as Diva Devery I should spend one last evening researching in preparation. Ironically enough, sitting at my laptop with a cup of warm milk reading a WikiHow tutorial entitled 'Channeling your inner sass' is probably the least Beyoncé thing I've ever done. I came to the brazen conclusion that I would be better off just free-styling my way.
My first move was to go to bed without laying out my outfit for work the next morning. I had notions of rising at dawn to do some yoga type maneuvers. I would never claim to be doing actual yoga; just a yoga-esque routine. I only attempted actual yoga once. I had been informed about an hour before attending a class with a friend that normally yoga is performed without shoes or socks. In a fit of manic preparation I decided that my toes were probably too hairy to remove socks in public without some sort of license and so, in a vain spur of the moment effort, took a razor to them. I won't bother with the details, suffice it to say that I was politely asked to leave the class. Apparently bleeding profusely on a fancy rented mat isn't considered au fait in the yoga world. But, I digress.
I assumed that, feeling refreshed and faintly superior to the general public who don't rise at dawn to salute the sun, I would be in an optimum head-space to choose an outfit with both assurance and authority. Confident as Kanye. I envisioned myself picking killer pointed toe stilettos and some power suit type ensemble. I would colour in my eyebrows with a thick black permanent marker, as is apparently fashion forward? Obviously I would also lash on the red lipstick. Nothing screams sassy like sitting by an MRI scanner dressed like an extra on 'Sex and the City'. As I was fully committed I decided to take up smoking to complete the look. Unfortunately I slept through my alarm, hit the snooze button eleven times and got toothpaste in my hair. I wore black trousers, sensible shoes and a cardigan. And I was late for work because the cardigan was not laid out in its usual spot so I panicked and pulled every item of clothing I own out onto the floor.
Thoroughly disheartened by the second rate start to my new life, I decided to maybe try inject some oomph in the form of coffee. Making coffee in the staff room was, according to my expert opinion, a bit basic for a true diva so I spent some NHS time googling the local Starbucks. Armed with the number and my 'I own this' attitude, I rang up and got chatting to some grump who could have done with a double shot or two himself. "We don't do delivery" he said. I considered asking if he knew who I was, but thought the better of it. I hadn't put in enough groundwork to pull that one. I did however explain that the coffee was a vital component of the new me and that it was imperative that it landed on my desk within the half hour. I added that I didn't care how exactly he carried this out. He responded with "I'm sorry, but we don't deliver. Try Dominos." I told him that he was rather unhelpful (as the WikiHow tutorial decreed that a filter is just for Instagram and one should speak one's mind at all times). He hung up.
I resolved that before embarking on my journey as Diva Devery I should spend one last evening researching in preparation. Ironically enough, sitting at my laptop with a cup of warm milk reading a WikiHow tutorial entitled 'Channeling your inner sass' is probably the least Beyoncé thing I've ever done. I came to the brazen conclusion that I would be better off just free-styling my way.
My first move was to go to bed without laying out my outfit for work the next morning. I had notions of rising at dawn to do some yoga type maneuvers. I would never claim to be doing actual yoga; just a yoga-esque routine. I only attempted actual yoga once. I had been informed about an hour before attending a class with a friend that normally yoga is performed without shoes or socks. In a fit of manic preparation I decided that my toes were probably too hairy to remove socks in public without some sort of license and so, in a vain spur of the moment effort, took a razor to them. I won't bother with the details, suffice it to say that I was politely asked to leave the class. Apparently bleeding profusely on a fancy rented mat isn't considered au fait in the yoga world. But, I digress.
I assumed that, feeling refreshed and faintly superior to the general public who don't rise at dawn to salute the sun, I would be in an optimum head-space to choose an outfit with both assurance and authority. Confident as Kanye. I envisioned myself picking killer pointed toe stilettos and some power suit type ensemble. I would colour in my eyebrows with a thick black permanent marker, as is apparently fashion forward? Obviously I would also lash on the red lipstick. Nothing screams sassy like sitting by an MRI scanner dressed like an extra on 'Sex and the City'. As I was fully committed I decided to take up smoking to complete the look. Unfortunately I slept through my alarm, hit the snooze button eleven times and got toothpaste in my hair. I wore black trousers, sensible shoes and a cardigan. And I was late for work because the cardigan was not laid out in its usual spot so I panicked and pulled every item of clothing I own out onto the floor.
Thoroughly disheartened by the second rate start to my new life, I decided to maybe try inject some oomph in the form of coffee. Making coffee in the staff room was, according to my expert opinion, a bit basic for a true diva so I spent some NHS time googling the local Starbucks. Armed with the number and my 'I own this' attitude, I rang up and got chatting to some grump who could have done with a double shot or two himself. "We don't do delivery" he said. I considered asking if he knew who I was, but thought the better of it. I hadn't put in enough groundwork to pull that one. I did however explain that the coffee was a vital component of the new me and that it was imperative that it landed on my desk within the half hour. I added that I didn't care how exactly he carried this out. He responded with "I'm sorry, but we don't deliver. Try Dominos." I told him that he was rather unhelpful (as the WikiHow tutorial decreed that a filter is just for Instagram and one should speak one's mind at all times). He hung up.
Well obviously after this unadulterated ego bash, I was feeling wholly embarrassed. In a last ditch attempt to regain control of the situation I decided to try out my brand new sass walk. It's truly amazing how a little hip swinging can pump you right back up. As per usual I took it too far though, and now have some muscular strain injury niggling the left hip flexor. My online diagnosis indicates a grade 2 tear, which should be readily treatable with rest and proper care. However in 0.02% of cases there is evidence of it maturing into chronic necrosis with the necessary treatment being amputation. I translated this particular piece of convincing research from a Japanese medical journal published in 1992, so if any of you are considering pre-emptive amputation I would just maybe double check the translation. It seemed legit enough though. I've ordered a bottle of Holy Water from the Lourdes gift shop, just to be on the safe side.
I understand that this particular social experiment cannot be relied upon as a typical representation of a transformation from classy (just roll with it) to sassy. I spent the weekend gone by analysing my behavior patterns and have come to the conclusion that perhaps I am genetically predisposed to feeling permanently apologetic. Contact the Vatican for further details. Anyway, I can confirm that I am well and truly back in my box.
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