So this past Friday night, after the debate (because I sure wasn’t about to miss Obama tearing McCain up for nothing), I headed down to Room Service for this Puma party for Usain Bolt my boy Ed told me about.
SIDEBAR: You know you’re not socializing enough when the party promoter that you used to see every other day including the weekend’s jaw straight hits the floor when you show up at the velvet rope. And the only thing he can think to say is, “DAYUM Mitzi! What are YOU doin’ out???”
But I digress… So, once inside the club I promise you, not even 5 minutes passes before some random peroxide Goldilocks pushes past and slaps me in the face with her dried out tresses. And I’m instantly reminded why I stopped coming out to these industry events in the first place. Luckily, Ed was there to keep me from making a beeline for the nearest exit. God bless his heart. “Let it go, she don’t don’t have no home training,” he advised. And I tried. I even found an an old hanging partner of mine, Sandy that was out on the prowl with her crew and tried to relax. And can I tell you, God truly protects babies and fools in 4 inch stiletos. Just as the ache in my arch was gonna force me to throw in the towel, Chuck materialized and asked whether I wanted to sit down. Amen, Hallelujah! Before you could say free champagne, Sandy, her nameless Latina girlfriend, nameless Asian girlfriend and I all made a beeline for the VIP section.
So now I’m sitting on the couch, talking smack to Sandy and wondering how much longer my old bones are gonna last when out of NOWHERE, this perky looking girl walks over to the table and is like, “Hey ladies, do you wanna meet Usain Bolt? Just follow me!” Excuse you? I wasn’t sure what homegirl was talking about but it couldn’t hurt to go look right? I mean I was wearing the extra fitted purple sweater dress. Might as well make the most of it.
Next thing I know all four of us were ushered into the super tiny VIP-VIP section and people were shoving drinks in our hands, taking pictures and trying to get us to make nice with the world’s fastest man (who by the way looked super overwhelmed with his entire immediate family surrounding him like the secret service and throwing mad shade at all the ‘fast’ American women). It was very much like back in college when you joined the hostess committee to welcome all the new promising athletes… wink, wink.
To be honest, I don’t think I lasted ten minutes beyond the hello. My nerves were too bad. I kept thinking about all the places those photos will go in cyberspace (for perfect example, see above). I know I read The YBF, how bout you? So. Not. Cute.
In retrospect, I’m not quite sure how I should feel about what happened. On one hand, it’s a lot to be on the ho train at 32. But then on the other hand, it’s kind dope to be young enough looking to be on the ho train at 32. No? You tell me…
I lucked up on a ticket to last night’s VH1’s Hip-Hop Honors Awards. And although I’m not normally a fan of attending shows that are going to be taped for TV (too much down time changing sets, reading lines for commercials, and overall time inefficiency); I have to say it was really good.
