went to a party alone
I did decide to go to the party the other night. It was everything I expected, and nothing I hoped for.
I’d received an email with a street address and a 7-digit code, and the instruction to “look for the building on fire.” We Mapquested the address; Jack advised that I made sure I had a full tank of gas. The party was not in a part of town where I’d want to have to stop on the way home at 3:00 am.
Sure enough, my drive went from gated subdivision and manicured lawns, to busy freeway replete with malls and chain restaurants, through downtown’s skyscrapers, and into an industrial area. The few working sodium lights did little to dispel shadows around Dumpsters, receiving docks and long, low cinder block buildings. To add uncertainty, the street signs were too dirty to read in the ambient light, and none of the buildings seemed to have numbers.
Finally, I saw lots of cars clustered at one property. Sure enough, there was a ten-foot orange flame of light projected on the concrete wall facing the street. I’d found the place.
There was a keypad next to the door. I punched in my code and a tiny light turned green, but before I could touch the doorknob, it swung open. Techno music bumped out, and Michael Clarke Duncan’s twin gestured me in.
The walls were red, and the gladioli were white, and the candles were everywhere. A statuesque brunette in a tiny black dress escorted me down a long hall and handed me off to a waifish blonde in a tiny black dress, who showed me the coat check, the restrooms. This was apparently a warehouse that had been converted to an artists’ co-op. They had properties in New York and L.A. as well, the blonde said.
The long hallway opened onto a huge white cavernous room lit only by rows of votives on the walls and a two-story-high projection of a DVD of two girls [performing a certain act that has a numeral for a name]
Arriving at any party or club, the first thing a woman does is rate herself relative to the other women in the room. It’s subconscious, and any woman who claims she doesn’t do it is lying. “No, really, I don’t”s will not be entertained; I’m one of the most confident women I know, and I do it. We can’t control it. Western culture prizes women that are young, healthy and beautiful, and you have to gauge where you fall on the spectrum at any given event to know where you stand.
I was in the middle on attractiveness, and in the middle in income. I was one of the youngest people.
I was also one of the least gilded. The women were all in standard [adult party] wear, which is merely club wear that reveals more (Mesh tops, micro-minis, garters, flossy halters, ultra-low-rise, ultra-push-up. Lots of lingerie and scanty things. Everyone stops short of displaying [flesh below the belt], but that’s really the only line.). Nothing was too surprising about the attire, but it was the execution: everyone seemed bleached and glossed and implanted to the ostentatious nines.
I’m a preppier look, usually more Ralph Lauren than Stella McCartney. Fashion-forward is nice but haute couture doesn’t exactly play at the homeowners’ association meeting. We look for all the world like Young Republicans, really. My husband doesn’t have highlights. He doesn’t own anything like this (link to Int’l Male catalog), which is what the host seemed to be wearing.
(Don’t think I show up at these parties looking like Mary Poppins. I tweak my look for the occasion, and it works for me. It’s just a “[hot] librarian” look, something with a bit of mystery.)
There was a lot of hipster club furniture about, white leather and chrome and lacquered bits. There were lots of hipsters draped about on the furniture, women with forced perma-smiles, their dates with shirts unbuttoned way too far. There were a few girls dancing, in a very artful way that had nothing to do with being close to one another or enjoying the music and everything to do with projecting exactly how attractive they fancied themselves.
Everyone seemed to be posing. No one seemed to be having any actual fun. The dynamic was all wrong. Instead of the affectionate, unaffected energy I’ve grown to prefer, the room had a very competitive vibe, as if this were just another A-list nightclub on any given Saturday. Snippets of conversation floating through the room were on who’d just bought lofts at the hottest new address, who’d just re-upped the lease on his S-Class. The few girls who were making out, with each other or their dates, seemed to be doing so as performance, covertly watching who was watching.
I am not a fan of assumptions, and the Lord above knows I don’t judge recreational [partying], but I would hazard the guess that the dull stares, hollow laughs and meaningless conversations had chemical catalysts.
I spotted a few people I knew from around, and I wandered about with my Scotch and my wristlet and talked a bit. But other than little pleasantries and banter about mutual [lifestyle] acquaintances, I couldn’t muster up any interest. The artifice had overwhelmed me.
This wasn’t my kind of event. The venue, amenities and staff were top-notch, mind you; it was the crowd that didn’t work for me. There weren’t any guests here that I wanted to have a conversation with, much less kiss or fondle or [do more with].
It was a very slick party, and I suspect that all the very slick people went home and had some very slick [interaction]. I introduced myself to the hosts, thanked them, and ducked out after 45 minutes. I was home by midnight.
