A Weekend at the Wall

It makes me sad to say it, but I just couldn't pull the trigger. The boyfriend and I are not club people to begin with, but I'll admit that the chance to go to Marquee, all-expense-paid, is a once in a lifetime experience for someone like myself. (A.K.A. someone who is admittedly NOT an "it" girl.) I was excited, at first, at the opportunity to spend an evening in such an iconic place. I told said boyfriend, when he invited me, that I'd be happy to come... and I started immediately trying to mentally prepare an outfit. I had about a week to psych myself up for the occasion. I didn't do very well, apparently.

"Don't forget," he said on Tuesday, having just flown back from Thanksgiving break. "We're going to Bill's party on Saturday." Fuck. Let's be honest. "Bill's party" wasn't a party at all. It was an invite-only, bottle service occasion at Marquee lounge. (That of Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton drunken fame.) A place whose many user-reviews tout "douchebag bouncers" and case after case of people being booted at the door for not being "it" enough. Wannabe socialites fawn over this place. It's a cocaine fueled playground for the pretty and pretentious. To get anywhere near the velvet rope, you have to be on the list. And we were on the list last night.

We were supposed to leave at eleven. At eleven fifteen I put on the one outfit I'd managed to create in my head that even approximated appropriateness. It was a black Max Azaria babydoll dress, knee high black leather boots, and a short black jacket with a plunging neckline and mid-waist button with puffy shoulders. It was all wrong. I changed the jacket. I switched out the dress for jeans. I tried a sparkly tank top. I tried everything. At eleven forty-five, I could feel myself hitting the wall. Social anxiety raging at a record-high, the boyfriend was sipping on a whiskey concoction in the living room, reading a back issue of Vanity Fair, one of many that litter the apartment. He tried to come into my room, to check on my progress and I slammed the door in his face. I started to cry. He came in anyway, and found me sitting on my bed, hair and makeup accomplished, wearing pantyhose, a sparkly tube top and knee high boots. He tried to tell me I looked pretty. He tried to offer suggestions. I think we both knew he didn't have a shot in hell.

He looked at me sadly and I took off my earrings. My eyes were filled with tears and I knew for a fact that I'd been defeated. In just under 40 minutes, my anxieties had gotten the better of me. I felt like a total lunatic. He picked up a pair of his sweatpants off of the bed next to me. "Please put these on," he said. "I'm not making you go anywhere. Just put them on and come into the living room and talk to me." Maybe he was hoping to get me out of my crazy place. Maybe he hoped that away from the sight of my closet, he might be able to regain a grip on the generally sane girlfriend he knew and loved. I shuffled into the living room and sat on the couch across from him.

"Is there anything I can say to make you come with me?" He asked. I shook my head. He tried again, in vain, to tell me how beautiful he thought I was. I sat stone cold, immobilized by my anxiety, and gripped by my stupid neurosis. The problem, as I saw it, was that if I could just get myself INTO something and OUT OF the door, I'd be fine. There would be plenty of free martinis awaiting me on the other side to calm the nerves. It would be dark. People wouldn't see what brand of jeans I was wearing. (Not J, or Seven, or Citizen mind you.) My shotty skin and size tens would be OK in the dark and once I was drunk. I might even have fun, if I went. I might even realize that it isn't all bad there. But I couldn't move. I knew I'd be OK, if I could just get to the door. But five minutes later, in the same spot on the couch, wearing his sweatpants with tears streaming down my cheeks, I watched while the boyfriend walked out of the door.

He sent me text messages. Consoling at first. "You're not missing much, except Jessica Biel and Derek Jeter." Sweet. And then the, "It's fun. I wish you were here" kind of messages followed. I waited up for him, crying off and on at my stupidity, wishing I was there, and nodding off every once in a while, until at five something, I realized he wasn't coming home. I slept until nine, having dreams about pledging sororities and trying to squeeze into prom dresses that didn't fit. I woke up feeling beaten. Physically, but mostly emotionally, by myself. I showered and shuffled off to brunch, where when asked about my night I responded, "I just don't really like clubs. He went ahead without me." I smiled, but I think my eyes were probably still a little swollen.

It was the most out of control girl moment of my young adult life. I was embarrassed and sad when I spoke this morning to both Missie and my mom who said with the same enthusiasm, "I've been there!" claiming that they were each familiar with the wall I encountered in my bedroom last night. I felt a little better, I guess. At least to know I wasn't alone.

At the end of the day, I suppose I can still die happy, even having never seen the inside of the Marquee. Everyone is hungover today, and I'm feeling just fine, albeit a little deflated. It's frustrating to realize how easy it can be to get the better of yourself, and how much fun you could have if you'd just learn to lighten up sometimes. But for now, I'll have to cut my losses, and pretend to have enjoyed a quiet weekend at home. My weekend at the wall.