The accumulated detritus of our TIFF life (Photo by Jen McNeely)
We went into TIFF feeling like a groomed and glowing Jessica Simpson and came out looking like Mickey Rourke after a bender. What begins with clinking glasses of Moët and bumping hips with George Clooney at a Bridle Path mansion descends into glamorous gluttony: Dolce and Gabbana swag littered in a pile of dirty laundry, espresso stains, broken pumps and scattered taxi receipts. We are now ready to trade in stalking Oprah Winfrey for life in the country with a pint-sized pony and some Cookstown greens. It was swell drinking Grey Goose martinis with Clive Owen and hobnobbing with boldface names, complaining to coiffed socialites that our party schedule was maxxed out, but we now find ourselves yearning to float down from the elevated eclipse of seductive fantasy and find solace in googling how to start a hobby farm. Nikki Beach? No thanks; we are dreaming of greeting a Kincardine sunrise with a bowl of oats. Call us extremists, but as TIFF comes to a close, the last thing we want is a free cocktail and cured meat. Just give us a stack of hay to lie in, far away from Yorkville. If we can’t have that, then we’ll settle for an oxygen facial and an afternoon at Body Blitz. That should carry us through until next September, when we’ll be ready to do it all over again.
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Bridle Path, Clive Owen, drinks, fashion, George Clooney, Mickey Rourke, Nikki Beach, Oprah Winfrey, socialites, TIFF, Yorkville
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