I hate the races. There, I said it.
I have done them all from Randwick to Carathool and it is only after I finally said no to an all-expenses paid day at the races and had no regrets that I came to this realisation.
It has all the elements of a good time, you and your besties dolled up to the nines and able to day drink with no judgement – but I liken the races to Cinderella, once the clock strikes 12pm and you have taken all your selfies and are five drinks in and starving for greasy food, the glamour wears off.
You are left with crowds and the blazing sun melting your make up away, your feet are four times the size and your spanx have become a sauna for your middle section.
Finding a spot in the shade has the odds of me winning the Melbourne Cup.
In the midst of all this drinking, you realise with horror that you must use the bathroom, which everyone knows is an avoid-at-all-costs situation due to the lack of dunny paper and just common decency. Your bathroom trip is one you must psych up for, and don’t forget to allow yourself the half an hour wait to the point where you are dancing to no music and about to bust.
Then comes the confusing form guides someone insists on explaining to you, and so begins the long and confusing process as you nod along and hope there isn’t a quiz at the end.
Ignoring it all you pick the name that jumps out at you and feeling confident and full of champas you put a win only on some random name, and just like that there goes your last twenty.
Speaking about the races, is it time to stop snapping photos of drunk women like they’re animals in a nature doco? Let's get real. Post continues after audio.
So begins the trek to the ATM, and by this stage you've given up looking gracious and hobble along like a newborn giraffe, and put yourself in yet another line - see the theme here?
You are herded around and lined up more than the horses.
By this stage you have sobered up in the long bar line, looked around and caught your friends eye after seeing her getting bumped around in the crowd like a dodgem car you can tell you are both thinking the exact same thing…… get me out of here!
If only you were Dorothy and could click your Tony Bianco’s three times to get home.
So begins the journey to your lounge and cold left over pizza, but first you must find the rest of your drunk friends who have either lost their phones or have no signal. Then, after you round them all up you get talked into staying a little bit longer so your friend can chat up a guy she met in the bar line.
Before you know it the last race is run and now the real race begins, for a maxi taxi you are so desperate to get out of there that you whip off the heels (oh gawd that feels good!) and go for it, dragging your friends along and dodging the crying girls and guys throwing up in the bin.
The real winner of the day is when you push your way through the crowd quick enough to see that white beacon of light travelling towards you, so you wave that cabbie down as though you've been stranded on a deserted island.
Once you have shut that door and sworn to never do that again, you hear a voice from behind you: I think I’m going to be sick.
This post originally appeared on Carly's blog Chatter and Squeak.
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