Ahhhhhrtty Pahhhhtyy

Since coming back to D.C., I have made a pledge to be more social.  "Social" aka "Not staying in bed all day binge watching Netflix."  At least not doing that EVERY day.  Sunday, a holy day.  I've decided to explore the city, in which I was apparently raised.  I say "apparently" because I sadly know nothing about it.  Sure, I'm familiar with some things -- there are monuments, M street was the coolest thing to me between the ages of 16-18, and I live in a neighborhood filled with people wearing North Face fleeces swinging around their Coach wristlets.  But words like "U Street," "Nationals Park," and "North East" -- it's like a foreign language.

I bought two tickets to a photography exhibit at a totally trendy* (*to people in D.C.) gallery hosted by a local news blog.  Here's what I can conclude with 100% confidence from my time back in the district: You cannot differentiate the social scenes.  Segregated social spheres are no more!  Now, Barbour jacket-wearing kids whose full names sound like law firms are hanging out in the same venues as "creative types" with full-sleeve tats.

I have found a living, breathing identity crisis and his/her/hermaphie's name is WASHINGTON D.C.  This goes waaaaaay beyond any upper-middle class white kid's quarter-life questioning.  No one in D.C. knows who they are, or can identify themselves as a "type."  Usually at an event like this you would see one social group of "art" people.  But these attendees had no clue where they fell in a social spectrum.  You're at an alt-cultural event but you're a wonk who dresses like a vice-principal at a state-wide budget conference.  Or you're a tech start-up graphic designer, wearing creepers, and are actually socializing, nay, SMILING.  Everyone's confused yet everyone's trying to fit in to some scene that doesn't even exist.  Think outside the social box?  THERE IS NO BOX.  I have to stop typing about this or my mind will collapse upon itself like a full-blown prep-cum-jap-cum-not really hipster, star.  (If anyone googled "cum" and ended up here then WELCOME!  And, I'm sorry?)

At the beginning of the day, I chose to dress like someone who I thought would attend a gallery function:

• Big, messy bun?  Check.
• Thick cat-eye eyeliner?  Feeling Friskies!
• Vintage-y looking sweater?  Yeah, whatever.
• Oxblood lipstick?  Mmhmmm.
• Knee-high leather boots?  Oh, you mean the ones I got that were marked down from $250 to $50?  Then yes.

Here's a photo:

Not pictured: My pinky toes, begging for mercy.

Breaking in new boots is one of those things where you know you HAVE TO do something, but just don't want to because it'll bring about much pain.  Like the term paper you decided to write the night before it was due.  What?  Why would I have any clue what that feels like?  I've just heard it's really bad, and that at around 4AM you start hallucinating and see all the ghosts of Christmas, because they're pretty bored during the rest of the year.

So I left work, striding as confidently as I could without any feeling in my pinky toes.  Sorry, that's a lie, the feeling was "OOOOOOOHHHHHGODDDDDDHELPMEEEEEPLEASSSSEEEE!"  I got to the Bethesda Metro and stepped onto the down escalator.  I tried to limit my motion due to the immense foot pain and the fact that I just did my awesome art gallery chick makeup, and didn't want to sweat it off.  We all know I suffer from self-diagnosed Hyperhydrosis.  (Please donate to my checking account so I can finally afford a cure.)  I noticed that EVERYONE was walking down the metro escalator.  So I ended up looking extremely lazy because I couldn't even walk DOWN a MOVING set of stairs.  It was almost to the point where if someone passed by my left I would say, "New boots, can't move, you know."

Even with the lack of escalator motion, it happened.  Once I situated myself on the red line seat -- LE DELUGE!  I looked around nervously to see if anyone else was noticing my excessive face sweat.  I didn't know what to do!  I mean, sure, I could've taken off my wool coat, then sweater, leaving me in my long-sleeved dress and tights... but why?  I thought to myself, "SWEATING IS MENTAL!  YOU CAN STOP THIS!"  Apparently my mind-body connection is like a verizon signal underground (or an AT&T signal ANYWHERE!!  BOOM.  Awwww snap, carrier battle!) because there was no stopping the sweat.  I couldn't fully wipe my face with the back of my hand because the makeup smearing would turn my face Picasso-y, so I had to dab (like a fucking lady) at my upper lip and hairline.  Why was no one else sweating??  At this point it looked like I was actually exerting myself by sitting down.

FINALLY, I got my body temperature to a somewhat normal range.  I "walked" to the escalator (where I STOOD, haters) and was finally above ground in the refreshing 40 degree weather.  I walked the two blocks to the gallery and entered.  Immediately, I was greeted by a bouncer who most likely got lost trying to find his meatpacking district gig with apple maps.  He was dressed entirely in black, was about 6'6", and wanted to see my I.D.  I pulled out my California mugshot:

To be fair, this would be my expression if pulled over.  Or just uncontrolled crying.

He handed me back my mugshot, looked me in my sweat-streamed, mascara'd eyes, and said: "You look very beautiful tonight."  My only reaction was to make a noise that sounded like a cross between a laugh and water going down the wrong pipe.  I then realized he was being serious, and as a courtesy said "Thank you" in my most, "No, I'm actually trying to be earnest" voice.

I moved on to the ticket table, where I presented my printed tickets -- one for me, and one for my best friend Laura.  Here's a bit of background on Laura: She's Asian.  She's awesome.  Shall we continue?  I explained to the girl at the table (the one with a major case of Bitch Face, much like everyone else at this party) that I was arriving before Laura, so I'd like to leave her ticket here.  The girl responded "Yeah, whatever, she'll just give her name," then yanks the paper tickets from my hand and throws them away.  I don't even think she RECYCLED.  At that moment I knew 2 things: I needed to get drunk, and I was starting to sweat again.

Here's the problem with sweating in an art gallery -- the lighting.  The florescent lights were on FULL BLAST to ensure clarity of the photo exhibit.  It also ensured clarity of the water/mineral salts combo seeping from my face.  I immediately took off the coat, slung it over my arm, adjusted my work tote, and lasered-in on the bar.  Attempting to navigate this crowd was tough.  Not only was everyone carrying a bag that fit their "homework," (probably the entire U.S. Budget), but they were also dishing out side-eye like SNL Sloppy Joe's.  Here's something Washingtonians need to hear -- you are not hot enough to be this mean!  That is an exclusive right for the genetically endowed!  You probably work for an endowment.  NOT THE SAME THING.  At least the people in L.A. were nice to your face before they proceeded with soul-shattering insults once you left the room.  Laura attempted to call me while I was in line--

So young, so naive.

As I was waiting in the endless booze line, something happened.  A single droplet of sweat traveled from between my shoulder blades and landed somewhere near the top of my tights.  It was one of those moments where I shut my eyes, inhaled, and exhaled while murmuring "Oh God."  My only hope was to get drunk enough that my body would somehow forget to sweat because all hands were on liver deck.  FINALLY I got to the front of the line, but only saw beer taps.  "Do yo have any wine?", I asked the hipster-attempt behind the makeshift bar.  "No, that's the other line."  I then proceeded to do what only close friends and family have witnessed -- I put a hand on my hip, tilted my head down, and raised my eyebrows in a gesture of "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME/COME ON."  My forehead crease must've been deep because it actually elicited a "Sorry."  The best scam of the night (other than this being an art show -- the photos were all instagrams uploaded to flickr) was the sign I saw at the "bar."  "Small pours due to high alcohol content!!"  Please.  That's like someone saying they need an "Emotional Day" off of work.  I don't buy it.  I HAVE EMOTIONS EVERY DAY.  You're currently experiencing some of them by reading this blog.

Nothing like wine in a cup!  Except for wine in a glass.

I navigated to the wine portion of the bar where I was greeted with a few choices: Average-to-bad Cab Sauv in a box, or the same Average-to-bad Cab Sauv in another box.  I chose the first.  After I took a few large sips, I decided it was time to "socialize."  By that I mean look like I somewhat belong at this event.  This was a slightly difficult since I was the only one there without a friend, group of friends, or significant other.  I would look at a picture, and when someone approached, I'd start to say something to get a conversation going, but the next thing I'd know they turned away to their group and I was left talking to myself.  I actually talk to myself often, but it's to test out dialogue, and practice quippy one-liners for real life.  My self-dialogue was interrupted by a text from Laura -- DID SHE ARRIVE?  No.

Sadly, not one of my lowest points.

I decided to give up on socializing and moved to one of the least populated spots in the gallery.  This happened to be next to two couples, one with a NEWBORN CHILD.  At a noisy gallery party with a DJ.  A few years ago, I started a tumblr called "Why Are Your Kids Here?"  The idea came after we witnessed too many strollers at Coachella.  I really should've made this the inaugural photo.  I attempted to process the first-time mother like the teacher from Charlie Brown once she started talking about breastfeeding.  It's still burned into my memory.  Apologies for transferring the image to you.  It's like the VHS from "The Ring" -- I have to pass on the horror to someone else.  I couldn't move from the spot, since I deemed it the coolest (temperature-wise), so I distracted myself with more texting.  Because we all know that looking at a phone and texting means you have a lot of friends and are a very cool person.  Text to my friend Erin--

I'm trying to make "Valhalla" happen.

It's like she USB'd into my mind and knew exactly what I'd RATHER be doing.  Suddenly I got a text from Laura -- she arrived!  My savior!  The first thing out of her mouth: "Is it really hot in here?  I am SWEATING."  This is why we're friends.  Along with about 948350983409850389443850439850439853 other reasons.

I explained to her that I pretty much tried to hide in every brightly lit corner, and then paraded her around saying "Everyone, I'd like your attention!  Attention please!  I do, in fact, have a friend!"  We naturally started what we do best -- talking about other people.  I would've continued, but it was just too damn hot, and we ended up talking about that.  We spotted the temperature controls and went over to investigate.  IT WAS ON HEAT.  Heat.  "Laura, can I turn it off?"  "No!  You can't touch it."  "But what if I'm like... totally cool about it and maybe accidentally hit it or something?"  I then leaned on the wall, draping my arm over the control panel, boxing Laura in like the she was prey at a Jersey Shore club.  I then "accidentally" turned it off.  To anyone who's reading this who was at the event last night, 1: That would be quite the coincidence, and 2: You're welcome.

Once we settled the overheating, we started talking about everyone around us.  Wait, do you actually think two "adults" at a function who look like they're enjoying themselves are discussing current events or developments at work?  No, most likely they're talking about your cropped jean jacket.  I'm sorry.  We went to get another drink -- beer for Laura, box for me.  At this point I'm pretty tipsy.  After four years of being too scared to get a D.U.I., my tolerance is at a negative level.  By the by, the D.U.I. fear wasn't really one of bodily harm, but instead that it's like a $10k fine and aint nobody got time (or financial resources) for that!  We noticed something out of the corner of our eyes.  It was a man, about 5'5" dancing.  By himself.  Just doing a bob-shuffle combo.  I started to use my dance inertia to head his way.  Unfortunately we never made a dance floor connection, but we both felt the power in that music.

Ah, the D.J.  Well, he basically looked like Rif Raff from "Rocky Horror."

The Time Warp has really messed with my skin.

Except there was more of a "stick your tongue into an electrical socket" bounce to his hair.  He was just playing that weird non-lyrical, non-danceable music(?).  I needed to take a break from the dance floor and dragged Laura to a small ramp walkway.  I tilted back on my heels and rested on the waist-heigh wall.  AHHHH THE SMALL JOYS IN LIFE.  Momentary relief from the pain.  I looked across at the other side of the ramp to see a girl taking off her pumps.  I felt such a connection.  Enough to make eye contact, point to me, point to my feet, point to her, nod, and say "I get it."  I told Laura I wanted to wobble over there and make a new friend.  "No, I won't let you."  "Why?"  "Because I don't want to meet anyone new.  I'd rather die."  Well, I wanted to keep Laura around, so I stayed balanced on my heels.

We decided enough was enough, and called it a night.  On our way out the bouncer stopped me and asked "May I?"  May he, what?  Give me a piece of sage advice?  Wipe the dark heroin addict-esque makeup from under my eyes?  No.  He gestured to my coat.  He wanted to PUT MY COAT ON ME.  I think the last time a man has done that was on a ski trip in the early 90's, and it was most likely my dad.  I handed the bouncer my coat, and he did his gentlemanly thing.  We then took a cab home, and I was in bed around 9PM.  LIVIN THE LIFE!

The next morning, from bed, I texted Laura--

And I'll leave you with this final thought--