My half-fictitious life part III
[For those who haven't followed]
Part I
Part II
How to survive a designer’s party at a most chic hotel (almost) without losing face.
Some would certainly have sold their souls to see my baffled expression when we got to the place. Nobody told me that I was supposed to take out my best ball dress, as if I ever had one. We were headed for the Metropolitan Hotel, mind you. I wonder why I never paid any attention to those who kept warning me that anything can happen in sin city. I am dying to digress to tell you how I once ended up staying over at the province governor’s house wearing a frumpy sweater borrowed from a male friend. That’s another story though and I have to compose myself for this one.
Any way I look at it, I can’t fail to notice how out of place I am in this luxurious setting. I feel like staying downstairs chatting to the receptionists. [mental note: one of them is kind of cute]. Apparently, I am not allowed to stay in my comfort zone. Someone, get me out of here! I thus sheepishly follow our troop, go up to the eleventh floor, walk through the carpeted corridors and knock knock knock. All this sounds like it’s straight out of a dream but I can’t figure out how to wake up so I just try to focus on details. There are silver buttons to the doors. My heels don’t screech because the floor is soft as silk. Thank God some of my friends would look classy even at a Paris fashion show. The room looks like a disaster scene after a nuclear bombing. Girls half-conscious on a sofa (cocaine?), a gluing TV screen over thick smoke, crystal glasses on low-cut tables and this huge staircase obstructing the view. I don’t quite understand what it’s here for. I become suddenly aware of the faint music background that urges me to dance again to shake off the uneasiness. After filling up a glass of champagne, that is. My crush - his name is Zent, by the way - drinks from the bottle and joins me once again in a most sensual setup of a move.
A couple of attempts to socialize soon turn short for obvious lack of coolness on my part. Everybody here seems to be some kind of designer, visual artist, model or just born to be cool, rich and trendy. And oh so pretentious. I seek refuge in the bathroom. I am totally desperate at the situation and too worn-out to think myself a way out of it. I don’t even have any make-up to fix. My hair-style hardly ever looks like anything but that of a messy lioness so there’s not much to expect from there either. How lame is that?
You know what? Screw that, let’s make a brilliant come-back, sparkling all the fire of my eyes. Of course, my change of mood remains unnoticed for most. Zent is out for a while, God knows what he’s up to, and this other guy comes up to me. My inner signal flashes red in a split-second. There’s a panicking alarm ringing up there ‘Stay away, stay away. Dangerously close guy to the right. Probably drunk. Pull back. NOW!’ Too late, I’m so tired that I have almost lost track of time, not to say that I’m hanging in outer space. He’s so close now that our lips are about to join. Our what? Before I have time to come to my senses, it’s done. I’ve just kissed a guy that I don’t know from Adam. Oh my and to think that I’m not even high nor drunk. I can’t bring myself to slap him: he’s too completely pissed and baby-faced for that. I can’t find any other distraction than to reach out to the staircase and pretend to perform some acrobatic moves. In fact I am rather miserably swinging my shame away when Zent - I can tell from the touch - picks me up from behind and carries me around like a trophy. This idiot almost made me lose control. I am on the verge of combustion inside.
He looks wretched from too much drinking and dancing.
- I am going home, I think.
- Are you sure you’ll be ok?
There’s more worry in my voice than I should decently show. I try to shut up this motherly tone of mine. Not with much success, I’m afraid.
- Yeah. Just dump me in a taxi and I shall sleep through tomorrow.
I have this sudden surge of tenderness for him. I want to run my fingers gently through his hair, to touch the delicate features of his face, to lay my head on his shoulder. I want to do all those cliché romantic things in my own little way. Never mind the decadent atmosphere, I need to capture his look in a bubble. Instead, I just stand up to walk him down to the street.
As I walk back to the hotel, a seemingly endless strain of thoughts runs through. I need to sort all this out, but how? I am still absorbed when I bump into one of the receptionists.
Next: Why there shouldn’t be any after-parties for smitten ladies.
Part I
Part II
How to survive a designer’s party at a most chic hotel (almost) without losing face.
Some would certainly have sold their souls to see my baffled expression when we got to the place. Nobody told me that I was supposed to take out my best ball dress, as if I ever had one. We were headed for the Metropolitan Hotel, mind you. I wonder why I never paid any attention to those who kept warning me that anything can happen in sin city. I am dying to digress to tell you how I once ended up staying over at the province governor’s house wearing a frumpy sweater borrowed from a male friend. That’s another story though and I have to compose myself for this one.
Any way I look at it, I can’t fail to notice how out of place I am in this luxurious setting. I feel like staying downstairs chatting to the receptionists. [mental note: one of them is kind of cute]. Apparently, I am not allowed to stay in my comfort zone. Someone, get me out of here! I thus sheepishly follow our troop, go up to the eleventh floor, walk through the carpeted corridors and knock knock knock. All this sounds like it’s straight out of a dream but I can’t figure out how to wake up so I just try to focus on details. There are silver buttons to the doors. My heels don’t screech because the floor is soft as silk. Thank God some of my friends would look classy even at a Paris fashion show. The room looks like a disaster scene after a nuclear bombing. Girls half-conscious on a sofa (cocaine?), a gluing TV screen over thick smoke, crystal glasses on low-cut tables and this huge staircase obstructing the view. I don’t quite understand what it’s here for. I become suddenly aware of the faint music background that urges me to dance again to shake off the uneasiness. After filling up a glass of champagne, that is. My crush - his name is Zent, by the way - drinks from the bottle and joins me once again in a most sensual setup of a move.
A couple of attempts to socialize soon turn short for obvious lack of coolness on my part. Everybody here seems to be some kind of designer, visual artist, model or just born to be cool, rich and trendy. And oh so pretentious. I seek refuge in the bathroom. I am totally desperate at the situation and too worn-out to think myself a way out of it. I don’t even have any make-up to fix. My hair-style hardly ever looks like anything but that of a messy lioness so there’s not much to expect from there either. How lame is that?
You know what? Screw that, let’s make a brilliant come-back, sparkling all the fire of my eyes. Of course, my change of mood remains unnoticed for most. Zent is out for a while, God knows what he’s up to, and this other guy comes up to me. My inner signal flashes red in a split-second. There’s a panicking alarm ringing up there ‘Stay away, stay away. Dangerously close guy to the right. Probably drunk. Pull back. NOW!’ Too late, I’m so tired that I have almost lost track of time, not to say that I’m hanging in outer space. He’s so close now that our lips are about to join. Our what? Before I have time to come to my senses, it’s done. I’ve just kissed a guy that I don’t know from Adam. Oh my and to think that I’m not even high nor drunk. I can’t bring myself to slap him: he’s too completely pissed and baby-faced for that. I can’t find any other distraction than to reach out to the staircase and pretend to perform some acrobatic moves. In fact I am rather miserably swinging my shame away when Zent - I can tell from the touch - picks me up from behind and carries me around like a trophy. This idiot almost made me lose control. I am on the verge of combustion inside.
He looks wretched from too much drinking and dancing.
- I am going home, I think.
- Are you sure you’ll be ok?
There’s more worry in my voice than I should decently show. I try to shut up this motherly tone of mine. Not with much success, I’m afraid.
- Yeah. Just dump me in a taxi and I shall sleep through tomorrow.
I have this sudden surge of tenderness for him. I want to run my fingers gently through his hair, to touch the delicate features of his face, to lay my head on his shoulder. I want to do all those cliché romantic things in my own little way. Never mind the decadent atmosphere, I need to capture his look in a bubble. Instead, I just stand up to walk him down to the street.
As I walk back to the hotel, a seemingly endless strain of thoughts runs through. I need to sort all this out, but how? I am still absorbed when I bump into one of the receptionists.
Next: Why there shouldn’t be any after-parties for smitten ladies.