Context: Any hot mess knows that sometimes you need to, like, hide the fact that you’re an absolute disaster when you’re in the presence of a date or an adult or that stuck up bitch in your office who actually goes to church on the weekends. Weird. Here’s a guide to hiding your mess in various situations that happen more often that I would like to admit.
literally never always asking me where I get the inspiration for my posts from. Well, readers, let me tell you – it’s truly a gift. Sometimes, they float to me on little clouds while I’m passed out drunk in a place that is not my bed. Sometimes, I am just SO ANNOYED by whichever fuckboy has most recently taken up residence in my inbox that I just need to let out my anger. And sometimes, it’s out of pure desperation.
This post is the latter. And desperate times call for you not judging me right now.
You see, I went on a Washington Post Date Lab date* on July 5th, which as you may be able to deduce is the day after July 4th, aka the drunkest most messiest day of the year. And, while I am a huge proponent of embracing and promoting my lifestyle of degeneracy, I understand that not everyone is going to understand this. Aka my Date Lab date probably won’t be too kind when I roll in with 4 hickeys and a black eye. It happens!!
*The article runs this Thursday and then I will be doing a full debrief on the actual experience the following day because LORD knows I didn’t spill all the juicy deets in my interview.
I thus present to you the Tinder District Guide to Hiding Your Mess. For those days when sunglasses, a baseball cap, and an 3 Advil per hour just won’t cut it.
Your Mess: Sex bruises. A lot of them. On your arms. How did they get there? Unsure. Are they suspicious? Very.
Your Escape Route: “Oh, how did I get these strange inner arm bruises? Funny you should ask! You see, I was struck by an errant frisbee at my family friendly 4th of July picnic yesterday, haha. It was worth it, to see the children smile!”
This is believable so long as you refrain from mentioning how much you hate children within the same hour. Stay strong.
Your Mess: You have a guy over. Your trash can? Condom CITY. He’s noticed. You know he’s noticed. Things are tense.
Your Escape Route: “Oh, my GOSH. I NEED to tell you about the drama going on with my roommate, Hannah. You see, she’s having an affair with a Latin man she met at Toro Toro, but her boyfriend just CANNOT know, so I’m letting her hide the condoms in my trash can.”
Yeah, there are a LOT of things wrong with this situation, but he’ll probably be too concerned about the mental health of someone who would even agree to this situation to deduce that you’re fucking a random bro.
Your Mess: You were scrolling through the Insta page of the guy you’re about to go on a date with, temporarily forgot that it wasn’t just someone you thirst follow who you’ll never actually meet, and DEFINITELY liked literally twelve of their pictures and now you need to face them. OOF.
Your Escape Route: Show up to your date in a huff, preferably 7-12 minutes late, and when he asks you what’s wrong, exclaim that you’ve had “A DAY.” Drop that a hacker stole both your credit card number and your social media passwords, and that you’ve been on the phone for the past hour trying to sort things out, and that you need a drink STAT. He’ll assume it was the hacker, and you’ll evade any possible chance there may have been that you’ll be asked to split the bill.
Your Mess: You Sunday Funday’d (or Margarita Monday’d, or Irish Trashcan Tuesday’d, you get the picture) way too hard last night, and now you’re puking your brains out at work.
Your Escape Route: “Guys, I tried that new sushi place, you know the one? In Columbia Heights? Yeah, so I went there last night and I have TERRIBLE food poisoning. I’m never going back – in fact, I’m going to file a health code violation. Now, can I please go home?”
There you have it. Now, the above absolutely does not cover the entire spectrum of mess that you have no doubt experienced, but it’s a start. And remember – when all else fails, wear a super low cut shirt so your date will be too busy staring at your tits to even consider asking about your personal life.