More than once I have literally bailed three words into a response. “Yeah, it’s exciting to be here, uh . . . I don’t, uh, I’m bad at this, I’m sorry.” I have said those words verbatim. Why do they keep inviting me back?
There’s a campaign called #AskHerMore, which was started by some thoughtful, intelligent females (Lena Dunham, Reese Witherspoon, Shonda Rhimes, etc.). It aims to ensure that when women attend events, they are asked about more than their dresses. Men don’t answer questions exclusively about their clothes; why should we? A simple and understandable request.
However, if people could ask me less, that would be great. I would love it if we could limit my red carpet topics to my favorite colors, what sound a duck makes, and my thoughts on McDonald’s All-Day Breakfast—blessing or curse?
The next step is finding someone you know. Once I find someone who is willing to talk to me, I don’t leave their side for the rest of the evening. Unless I find someone better. Then I’m like, “God, some loser named Chris Pine has been following me around all night, let’s shake him!”
Meeting someone new in these situations is odd, because you don’t normally meet someone for the first time in a gown or a tuxedo. The clothes have a strange effect on my speech, and unless I know the person very well I take on a mannered, old-timey tone. I find myself asking men things like “May I take your arm?” instead of saying, “Dude, my heels are a shit show, so I’m gonna hold on to you, ’cause if I don’t I’m gonna drop faster than anything I’ve ever been handed that’s over ten pounds.”
Another source of anxiety is the famous people! The fucking famous people everywhere! Handsome movie stars, beautiful movie stars, young movie star couples I suspect are only together for the PR. (For the record, if I was approached to be the girlfriend of a male celebrity for a few months for PR purposes, I would one hundred percent do it. That’s not a joke; I wouldn’t even hesitate.)
Even when you are nominated for an award, or chatting with your movie star cast, the other celebrities at award shows reduce you to the most pathetic version of yourself. You know that feeling when you see a pretty girl and you immediately hate her because you assume she’d never talk to you (this metaphor works if you’re a girl or a guy), but then she smiles and introduces herself and you’re like, how could I have misjudged you, you are clearly the best person alive! That feeling is intensified tenfold with movie stars. Ugh, look at Kate Beckinsale across the room with her perfect hair and her perfect laugh and I’ll bet she’s an ice queen bitc— Oh god, she’s coming over here. She gives you a compliment and tells you one dirty joke and you are ready to blindly pledge your life to her service. Long live the queen!
After a while you’ll have to pee, and that’s where the illusion really falls apart. Even the nicest gown can’t be glamorous when you’ve got it hiked around your waist. Why even steam the dress?! You’re holding up the full skirt with one hand (sometimes the dress is so big it fills the entire stall) while you use the other to get your underwear down. You are pigeon-toed in your six-inch heels and it’s a miracle if you make it through the ordeal rip-and urine-free.
The show itself is usually funny, but no one laughs because we are all hungry and nervous. Sometimes you get to meet someone unexpected and delightful—for example, at my first Golden Globes I met the voice of Dug from the film Up, and he indulged me by saying, “I have just met you and I looove you.” I know! The after-party is often better, because win or lose, it’s over, and you can find something to eat! Actually, watching gorgeous women in skintight gowns attacking anyone holding a tray of food is half the fun.
The best part is going home. It’s a relief. I’m so happy it’s over, which I know sounds like a line. It’s not like I’m NOT checking Twitter to see if people liked my dress, but there’s an afterglow when my anxiety level returns to its normal, low-grade panic setting and simple acts are transformed into considerable luxuries.
I usually take off my shoes in the car and walk into my home barefoot, my dress dragging. The dress comes off and I get into sweatpants and a hoodie with no bra, but for the moment I keep on the jewelry and makeup. If the event is out of town and I’m staying in a hotel, I get into the bathrobe, which is nice, but it still has a Marilyn Monroe, glamorous vibe, and I’m going for more of a trashy jewel thief thing.
At home I get to sit on my couch, put on an old episode of 30 Rock, and eat mac and cheese in sweatpants and thousands of dollars’ worth of diamonds. It is the most delicious dichotomy I’ve encountered in my life.
Voyeur