Panic! at the Disco
Keep calm and fuck off.
Shit. I’m totally not panicked. Ok, I am a little, but it’s a very calm panic. I’m panicking calmly. I’m very good at that. I was totally scared panicked on the actual morning of the election announcements, because I thought things were really going to go south. I imagined 18 days all over again and I was in Masr El Gedida/Helipolis/Nasr City/I never really know the difference and I totally didn’t want to be stuck there FOREVER (disclaimer: I generally panic whenever I leave Zamalek. I need to be ten minutes away from my house at all times). It was literal mass hysteria coming back and since I don’t drive, I had to jump from cab to cab and smoke a pack of cigarettes. It was crowded, boiling, sweaty, smelly, hysterical and insane. It was not my shining moment.
Then I finally got into Zamalek and it was a veritable Ghost Town, an eerie calm with everyone tucked away – or at their beach houses – waiting for the results. My house, the capital of delusion, was also strangely in tune. My sister was just turning the news on; my mother was watching work out videos on YouTube. The three of did our best to endure the never ending speech of some Sultan. We laughed, tweeted and Facebooked. My mother gave me a haircut with nail scissors. It was a pleasant afternoon off, I must say. Then they announced the winner, my mother instructed us never to leave the house and ran to her room. My sister updated her profile picture.
So, like, eek, the Islamists are here. Oh. OK. That was slightly anticlimactic. Did I gain ten kilos? Am I wearing a galabeya? Is it always Ramadan? What am I going to do now? Avoid Facebook and Twitter, for sure. That’s exactly like willingly going to a bad party. The oh-so-funny birkini jokes. The ‘next party at the mosque’ bullshit. The badly written statuses (stati?). It would be too much. I would definitely have to go to work. So I’ll do that. Then I’ll come home. Maybe go for coffee. Have a beer at home. Oh… so not that much is going to change, really. I’ll have to invest in some sleeves to cover up the whole tattoo business. But I pretty much have to do that for work anyway. Ok… It’s not like Hajj Ibrahim (the alcohol dealer) is legit. He’ll have to be more careful though… he fucking delivers. How much slicker do you need to be really? How much more undercover?
Also, it’s not like this is St. Tropez. It’s not like things were all that free and easy. Even pre-revo. Let’s get some perspective. Hopefully these people will be worrying about things like the actual country you know like all of those starving people, the economy, education, before they can be bothered to tell me what to wear. It’s not you like all of you girls that are so worried about your miniskirts don’t change in the bathrooms of whatever club you’re at. At the end of the night you can still suddenly throw on leggings and a cardigan, as well as your slutty dress. You can totally still do that. Tip: Abayas work even better and are super practical.
So before you go all crazy and start looking for a visa to any country that will take you, calm down and realise you’ve pretty much been doing that for a year and a half anyway. If you haven’t, you should have been. Fact: we’ve been operating on the down low for years. Also, can I just have an opinion? It’s not like any of these ‘super-exclusive’ parties are actually any good. So, we’re not really missing out. If our personal freedom matters that much, we have to start looking for it somewhere other than a party. Only then do we deserve a drink.