MY SISTER: You owning a Kate Spade bag is even weirder than the fact that someone sent you a dildo in it.
ME: I know. That’s why it’s still in the box, along with the dildo. I’m totally going to bring it with me, though, and use it like a shield, so people will think I belong there. Basically I’ll use it the same way you use crucifixes on Draculas.
MY SISTER: The dildo?
ME: The purse.
MY SISTER: Ah. Don’t tell that story to anyone there.
ME: It’s probably the first thing I’m going to say. The last e-mail I got about the get-together suggested several shoe changes in one day. I only have one pair of nice shoes and they’re flats.
MY SISTER: Well, you have arthritis, so you have a good excuse.
ME: Yes, but I feel like I need to put that on my shirt: “Please don’t judge my flats. I have a disability.” I won’t have anything to change into when everyone else changes shoes. I have socks, though. I can change into socks.
MY SISTER: Oh, you’re totally fucked.
Two days before the event:
ME: Okay, I just saw the invitation list, and I’m completely freaked about this party. It’s like everyone else there is part of the cheer squad, and I’m that weird girl with the back brace who ate too much glue.
LAURA: You need to stop freaking out about this. It’s going to be super laid-back and casual, and you need to relax and have fun. Just bring a few pairs of jeans and some shirts and you’re set.
ME: I don’t own any jeans.
LAURA: You’re a damn liar.
ME: How many years have you known me? Have you ever seen me wear jeans?
LAURA: Wow. No. There might be something wrong with you.
ME: This is exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you.
The day before the event:
Karen (a wonderful and sweet blogger whom Laura had introduced me to) found out that I didn’t own jeans, and decided to have a shopping intervention.
KAREN: I can’t believe you don’t wear jeans. Jeans are fabulous, and crazy comfortable. Jeans are like underwear. It’s like just wearing your underwear around.
ME (from inside the fitting room): No. Dresses are like wearing underwear, because guess what I’m wearing under my dress? Just underwear. And sometimes? Not even underwear.
I stepped out of the dressing room.
KAREN: Ooh. See? Those are cute jeans. You should get them.
ME: Mmm. No. My knees look fat in these.
KAREN: Um . . . what?
ME: You wouldn’t understand, because you’ve always been thin, but when you’re fat your kneecaps get tired of supporting all of your weight, and so when you lock your knees they bend backward. That’s why I always concentrate really hard on always bending slightly at the knee, so that I don’t have fat-girl kneecaps.
KAREN: I love you, but I can’t even tell you how insane you sound right now. Like, most of the time you’re fine, but right now? Totally insane.
ME: You probably just weren’t listening those other times.
The first day of the party, on the plane:
You know when the captain comes on over the overhead speaker and says, “We’re going to take off in a few minutes, but we’re going to be without air-conditioning for a bit because we don’t have auxiliary power, and we’re having problems with one engine so we’re going to have to get out on the runway before we can get it started”? That’s when you should probably just get off the plane. But I couldn’t, because I was too terrified to move, so instead I just asked the guy next to me whether he thought this was some sort of joke. He didn’t, and told me it was nothing to worry about. “Yeah,” I said, my voice becoming shrill with fear, “but they just said we don’t have both engines working. I’m pretty sure two engines are preferable.”
He rubbed my hand patronizingly and told me I’d be fine, and I assumed he was hitting on me, so I said, “I’m married.” Then he looked at me strangely and said, “Congratulations?” He probably wasn’t hitting on me at all. More likely he just wanted me to shut up. Then the stewardess came on the speaker, and instead of saying, “At this time we ask you to turn off any portable equipment,” she said, “If you’re on a cell phone, tell them good-bye.” And I’m all, “Why did she say ‘Good-bye’ with such an air of finality?” The guy sitting next to me didn’t respond. Probably because he knew we weren’t going to make it out alive.
Amazingly enough, we landed. I was supposed to meet a fellow blogger at baggage claim so we could share a ride, but I’m terrible with faces, and I suddenly realized that unless she was wearing the trench coat from her blog picture I was in huge trouble. Instead I called her and told her to come find me. “You’ll know me by my black hat,” I said.