You’ll Never Believe Who I Talked To Today

The year was 2011 I had recently inherited a …sum …of money, it wasn't so much that I was gloriously rich, in fact to some people I suppose it would've been a generous contribution to their savings. To me, however, having grown up low income in a middle class neighborhood, it seemed like ALOT of money; for the same reason, I had the money management skills of a large, overripe spaghetti squash. Granted, there were certain things I really did need, the 42-inch tv I bought from Walmart to replace the 20-inch, 15-year-old tube tv that sat in my rented single room was one, clothes were another. There were things I didn't need, 8-hour writing sessions with Chardonnay and ham sandwiches at the local art cafe, for instance. I also didn't necessarily need to keep my friends fed with fast food for 3 months. There were some good times too though, and one mortifying moment that I think about at an unhealthy frequency of about once a week.

I was dressed in a shy nod to 60's fashion, with large vibrant patterns hidden on the inside of my coat and top. I had been slowly getting used to seeing shows in a venue without sticky floors, The Jubilee was one such place, red carpet, orchestra pit, wine in wine glasses, and an overall atmosphere that strongly implied no one had ever been stabbed there. a year earlier it wasn't the type of place I'd have expected to find myself watching a show, of course, my life had been rife with changes these past few years and I was adapting like a water bear. I was sat in The Jubilee that night to watch a production of Stomp, a group of energetic men with a grudge against garbage can lids. All the while though I was always in search of new ways to spend my money, never one to pass up an opportunity, I decided to reach out to a fairly well known local clothing designer who shall remain nameless - as I only need to experience this humiliation once in my life.

I had been walking through the theater feeling far more valuable than I was and texting the designer directly to discuss plans for a new coat that would probably cost me more than I had any right spending. Things were going great, but she was someone I had approached intentionally, I was kind of a fan, and deep down I was EXTREMELY excited about this super casual conversation I was having with a real live kinda-semi-famous-person. As I reached my seat I finished talking to her and was certain that of course, this was the start of a budding friendship that would ultimately carry me to stardom by association, ah yes, one day I would sip wine with her on a terrace and blush as I explained how I had been a shameless fangirl deep down the first time we spoke, she would laugh and jokingly call me a loser...ah yes we would be the best of friends.

In the meantime, eager to share my good fortune I sent a text to my actual best friend to go absolutely insane and maybe make her a little bit jealous. Now seated in the theater I looked down at my phone and punched in a message “OMG I talked to a famous designer tonight!!!” only I didn’t neglect to name drop as I have here - SEND. As the tiny little beads of magic electronic betrayal beams left my phone I did a double-take and then a triple take and then...oh no. In my excitement I had sent my boastful, name dropping, immature, no class, fangirl message to the designer herself. My blood pooled in my feet, everything went numb...I felt like all 5,000 people in the theater knew exactly what I’d done, and were all looking at me...suddenly my phone, which had once been my connection to the rich and famous seemed many times larger than myself...the moment lasted...forever. I can remember it being in the middle of this realization that the house lights went down, as my eyes fought to adjust I wondered if at last I had been fortunate enough to slip into a wormhole that would allow me to travel just one single minute back in time, as stage lights came up I realized I hadn’t been so lucky.

So did I ever get my jacket? OF COURSE NOT!!! I never dared to text her again, but what I’ve deemed to be the bigger crime is that she never texted me back! Not a “Haha” not a “Wrong person lol” NOTHING, just radio silence...she left me to stew in the remains of my never-ending shame. To this day the last message I ever sent her was bragging that I’d spoken to her. The moral of today’s story: Honey, act like you've been there before.