My dream racing day would have begun with me looking dazzling in a dress I’d picked out months ago with a fabulous head piece and comfortable shoes. For one, I didn’t have an outfit until two days before cup day and I only figured it out after designer Pamela Usanto gave me one of her beautiful skirts as a gift. The day before the races I still didn’t have a headpiece so my mum found me one in a random box at her work and I generally do not own any comfortable heels (come to think of it, do comfortable heels exist???).
Another essential thing you need for the races is good weather but in Melbourne it is literally impossible to come by. I’m just thanking my lucky stars I wasn’t one of the poor sods on Derby day who had to trudge through the torrential rains with muddy heels and a see through dress (how convenient the dress code is black and white, clearly God’s a pervert and was craving a wet t-shirt comp). I had to promote for Tom Waterhouse online betting for four hours that morning at Southern Cross station and apart from the hectic blisters I got, I had a ball checking out people’s interesting choice of clothing but nothing would prepare me for what I saw on cup day.
Willy Wonka. What was this woman thinking??? I just don’t understand why some people decide to dress like this. I don’t think she’ll be picking up too many guys in that ensemble. I also saw numerous pairs of gum boots and fishnet stockings. I’m one of those girls who salivates at the thought of giving random strangers makeovers because it would make their life so much better and make things a lot less painful for my eyes. Seriously, look less fugly or stay inside.
The thing that you need the most at the races is good company and that’s why I love my friends. They all looked super amazing and have fantastic drinking and eating skills. They’re not that girl you spotted stumbling around taking swigs from a bottle of wine but the ones skulling their glasses or champagne with three sandwiches in their other hand. They’re not those girls whinging while carrying their heels in their hand, they’re the ones dancing and singing the national anthem at the top of their lungs in front of their marquee. Some of my favourite quotes from the day came from my little friend Brianna. My favourite was: “If you don’t skull that glass of champagne right now, you are no longer my friend”.
With the races comes the typical seedy old men who had one too many beers. The thing that disgusts me the most is the guys who try to hit on us are old enough to be our dads. I make a point to make them aware of this while asking if it bothers them that they’re paedophiles. That usually shuts them up. If that doesn’t work, I begin to call them dad while subtly running away. To seedy old men, Australia says no. Occasionally you will agree to be in a photo with them so they can go home and tell their other predator mates in Wagga about all the hot chicks they hung out with at the races. Is it really that hard to stick to their age group? Yes the women of that age are sagging in all the wrong places but at least they’ve finished going through puberty and got their first bra more than four years ago.
Did I also mention I am somewhat challenged at making bets? I literally have no idea how to do it, as I assume many other girls don’t. I don’t know the names of the horses, jockeys or anything about gambling. I went up to the window, handed over my $20 and said confidently “twenty on number nine thanks”. This was followed by the man asking me “which race? Place? First? Do you want to know the odds?” SHUTUP AND PUT MY BET ON BUDDY! YOU’RE MAKING ME LOOK LIKE A DICKHEAD! Dignity=lost.
To put it simply, I’m not really an experienced campaigner when it comes to the races but I make up for it in the effort I put in when trying to look like I know what I’m doing. Giddy up!
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