I could get away with it, since Courtney had these amazing 'control top' panty hose that made my legs look pretty decent. And since I'd managed to get them on without sticking a finger through them or wrinkling my not-quite-dry nail varnish, I figured the omens were good.
Courtney had bought miniature bottles of champagne for us to drink while we were getting ready to go out, a tribute to our freshman days when on big nights we had never left the house sober and always carried hip bottles of vodka to sneak into our Cokes. We would always drink through a straw - "It gets you drunker faster," - although four years later I'd still never taken the time to examine the science behind Courtney's theory. When we put straws in champagne it came frothing up the straws and spurted out like a tiny, very expensive fire hose; we laughed as we tried to catch the ends of the straws between our lips.
I was giggly before I'd even started drinking in earnest, and laughter is always a great confidence boost. So I guess that's why, when I stood in front of the mirror, that I'd been pleased with what I saw. My legs did look good. And my upper arms weren't nearly as bad as I thought they were. Courtney had taken hours working on my hair with expensive ceramic straighteners, as used by all the best hairdressers in Manhattan. Her suitcase was filled with things like that - just like her room had been in college. Everything she owned - the thick, soft brushes, the pearly-gold pots of bronzing powder, the gleaming goo of lip-gloss - all held the fairy-godmotherish promise of improvement.
It was only when I was in the bar and caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror that I realized I'd been a sucker. Midnight had struck early for my new sleek, sophisticated hairstyle. I'd gone out for five minutes with Courtney so she could smoke a cigarette and that five minutes had proved fatal. The kinks and frizz were returning with a vengeance.
I'd been drunk enough on arrival to imagine I could blend with this crowd - the handsome young men and the doll-faced girls on their stilt-like heels, their shiny manes of pampered hair swinging between the wings of their delicate, half-starved shoulder blades. Courtney had told a guy named James that I was an English Major and from that moment on he wanted to talk about Fifty Shades of Grey , no matter how many times I said I hadn't read it.
"I thought all English Majors had read it," he yelled in my ear, over the music.
"Huh?"
"I said 'I thought all English Majors had read it'. The main character is like an English Major."
I was confused. "I thought he was a billionaire."
"No. He is. But she's an English Major."
"Oh. Okay."
He leaned forward again. "So are you looking for a billionaire?"
I felt amazing. He had wonderful brown eyes with spiked black lashes like starbursts. And he was flirting with me. I threw my head back as I laughed and that was when I saw it. My reflection.
The short skirt and halter-necked top that had looked so good in my bedroom looked ridiculous, now that I was surrounded by the kind of bony beauties who made such outfits look amazing. I looked like a joke, like one of the tutu-clad hippos in Disney's Fantasia . I had been wandering around this bar like I belonged here and yet it was comically apparent that I didn't - a fat, frizzy haired mess laughing as if she were normal.
I don't think I could have been embarrassed if I'd turned and seen myself naked. Oh my God, I had to get out of here. Where the hell was Courtney? I began to count the ways in which I'd kill her for making me over like this - cartoon deaths, the kind of deaths that only killed for an instant.
"Did you see my friend anywhere?" I yelled at James. "Black dress, blonde hair."
He looked blank.
"She had like a chunky necklace on - gold. Egyptian kind of thing."
"Oh, that girl," he said. "The HB-nine? Yeah - I think she went out to smoke."
Great. She goes out to smoke and leaves me
Courtney had bought miniature bottles of champagne for us to drink while we were getting ready to go out, a tribute to our freshman days when on big nights we had never left the house sober and always carried hip bottles of vodka to sneak into our Cokes. We would always drink through a straw - "It gets you drunker faster," - although four years later I'd still never taken the time to examine the science behind Courtney's theory. When we put straws in champagne it came frothing up the straws and spurted out like a tiny, very expensive fire hose; we laughed as we tried to catch the ends of the straws between our lips.
I was giggly before I'd even started drinking in earnest, and laughter is always a great confidence boost. So I guess that's why, when I stood in front of the mirror, that I'd been pleased with what I saw. My legs did look good. And my upper arms weren't nearly as bad as I thought they were. Courtney had taken hours working on my hair with expensive ceramic straighteners, as used by all the best hairdressers in Manhattan. Her suitcase was filled with things like that - just like her room had been in college. Everything she owned - the thick, soft brushes, the pearly-gold pots of bronzing powder, the gleaming goo of lip-gloss - all held the fairy-godmotherish promise of improvement.
It was only when I was in the bar and caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror that I realized I'd been a sucker. Midnight had struck early for my new sleek, sophisticated hairstyle. I'd gone out for five minutes with Courtney so she could smoke a cigarette and that five minutes had proved fatal. The kinks and frizz were returning with a vengeance.
I'd been drunk enough on arrival to imagine I could blend with this crowd - the handsome young men and the doll-faced girls on their stilt-like heels, their shiny manes of pampered hair swinging between the wings of their delicate, half-starved shoulder blades. Courtney had told a guy named James that I was an English Major and from that moment on he wanted to talk about Fifty Shades of Grey , no matter how many times I said I hadn't read it.
"I thought all English Majors had read it," he yelled in my ear, over the music.
"Huh?"
"I said 'I thought all English Majors had read it'. The main character is like an English Major."
I was confused. "I thought he was a billionaire."
"No. He is. But she's an English Major."
"Oh. Okay."
He leaned forward again. "So are you looking for a billionaire?"
I felt amazing. He had wonderful brown eyes with spiked black lashes like starbursts. And he was flirting with me. I threw my head back as I laughed and that was when I saw it. My reflection.
The short skirt and halter-necked top that had looked so good in my bedroom looked ridiculous, now that I was surrounded by the kind of bony beauties who made such outfits look amazing. I looked like a joke, like one of the tutu-clad hippos in Disney's Fantasia . I had been wandering around this bar like I belonged here and yet it was comically apparent that I didn't - a fat, frizzy haired mess laughing as if she were normal.
I don't think I could have been embarrassed if I'd turned and seen myself naked. Oh my God, I had to get out of here. Where the hell was Courtney? I began to count the ways in which I'd kill her for making me over like this - cartoon deaths, the kind of deaths that only killed for an instant.
"Did you see my friend anywhere?" I yelled at James. "Black dress, blonde hair."
He looked blank.
"She had like a chunky necklace on - gold. Egyptian kind of thing."
"Oh, that girl," he said. "The HB-nine? Yeah - I think she went out to smoke."
Great. She goes out to smoke and leaves me
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