I hope no one will notice that they’re several seasons old.
I’ll be on my own for hair and makeup, but I’ve been paying attention when Carlos works his magic. Plus, it’s not like I need anything fancy. I need to blend in and fly under the radar.
So here I am, on the 12:30 bus that will drop me off at Port Authority with about two hours to get ready for cocktails. But first, I need to find a place to stay. I type “hotels near Javits Convention Center NYC” into TripAdvisor and am rewarded with numerous choices. Unfortunately, all the close ones are out of my budget, which is only marginally higher than the cost of a youth hostel.
I’m going to need to pick up extra shifts at The Tower to cover the cost of getting a new job. And considering I had to beg co-workers to take my shifts for the entire weekend, I’m starting this whole venture in the red. The bus ticket alone was fifty bucks. I navigate to several travel websites, price shopping. I find something in Times Square, which is still less than a mile from where I need to be. Walking a mile is nothing. The reviews aren’t terrible, so that’s one more thing done.
However, by the time my bus pulls into Port Authority, I’m starting to get nervous. I’ve been studying the map of Manhattan, and the hotel I booked is in the opposite direction from the convention. Do I take the chance and go to my hotel first and then head down? Do I go right to the convention center and change in the bathroom?
Screw it. I’m going to my hotel first. I have plenty of time. There’s no need to stress.
Except when I get there, it’s raining. Inside the building. Apparently, the massive water cistern on the roof failed and there are ten thousand gallons of water seeping down into the hotel.
Plan B.
I hustle over to the Javits and then head for the bathroom. This is probably a better plan anyway because between my winter coat and hat and carrying not only an oversized purse but a suitcase, I’m sweating and my hair is plastered to my head.
Thank goodness for dry shampoo.
On the other hand, this is one of those plans that’s definitely better on paper than in reality. I’m pretty sure Jennifer Garner never fell over nearly landing her face in the toilet while trying to get into her fancy dress. In fairness, the dress isn’t the main problem.
It’s the shapewear.
A favorite saying of my dad’s floats through my head as I jump up and down, willing this spandex to allow my body to slide through it. I know my body looks good once I’m in it, but I always forget the work it takes to get there.
It’s like shoveling ten pounds of shit into a five-pound bag.
There used to be a time in my life when I didn’t have to wear shapewear. When I was an athlete, I never thought about it at all. But being sick meant I couldn’t work out. The muscle mass I lost simply by being in bed was amazing, and not in a good way.
Needless to say, it’s all been replaced by softer tissue.
And that soft tissue does not want to be stuffed into this shaper. After ten minutes of wrangling, almost going headfirst into a public toilet, bashing my hip—and elbow—on the toilet paper dispenser, and accidentally stepping on a public bathroom floor with my bare feet, I emerge from the stall.
It’s definitely more Chris Farley inTommy Boythan Angelina Jolie inSalt.
No matter. I head to the sink and work on my makeup. Understated but adequate. That’s all I’m going for. After shaking out my hair and liberally dosing it with dry shampoo, I pull it back, twisting it a few times before using a small claw clip to hold it in place. Silver hoops and a few thin silver chains complete the look.
The last thing I put on is my leopard-print wedges. They fit the vibe of the red dress without actually being heels. First, I’m tall to begin with. Second, I’d rather wear sneakers or cleats than heels. Third, and the biggest reason, I can’t walk in stiletto heels.
I do have to say, I polish up real nice.
I shove all my traveling clothes and toiletries back into my suitcase and head to the coat check. I put on my most convincing pity look, make up some semi plausible excuse about my room not being ready, and ask the young man working the desk to secure my bag. Maybe I lean forward slightly so my cleavage is on display.
It works.
On to the next part of the plan.
Also, if this plan to infiltrate fails, I could always try to pass myself off as one of the waitstaff.
As I follow the crowd up to the fifth floor and into the pre-function area, I realize there’s one detail I overlooked. How to actually get in. Everyone, it seems, has their bright orange lanyards around their necks. Even the fit women in their microscopic dresses don’t seem to mind the additional fashion accessory.
I look down at my chest, sort of hoping one has appeared. Unfortunately for me, it hasn’t.
If I could go in and get a drink, I could hang out just beyond the doors and make it look like I belonged there.
Holy shit, I think Serena Williams just walked by.
Be cool. Be calm. She’d probably fall over too trying to put on a girdle in a bathroom stall.
