Last night was the epic conclusion of OPERATION: AUCTION GALA, in which I drank one vodka lemonade after working all day and eating nothing but a cupcake and a green rice krispie treat, and then proceeded to lose my bag (containing my glasses, credit cards, ID, and cell phone – essentially every expensive and important thing I own) in the bathroom at a super upscale LA hotel. Luckily for me, said hotel was so fancy that the person who found it had no interest in my Target-brand clutch (or the tube of chapstick and outdated iPhone 4 inside it) and turned it in to security, who dispatched someone to drive it over to me (from where???) and then apologize to me for the incident. The incident in which I left the bag in a bathroom stall and forgot about it for 40 minutes.
If attending an event where people assume you have money affords you the privilege of an apology for a huge inconvenience you caused, I can’t imagine what actually having money does. Perhaps it is this mentality that encourages people in Bentleys to turn their cars against the flow of traffic and then wave their arms maniacally and shout obscenities at the oncoming cars. Because, I mean, how dare those assholes get in Mr. Bentley’s way. Don’t they know who he is??? He is a man who drives a Bentley, dammit!
In this case, I was a girl in $30 heels, wearing $16 perfume, masquerading as a member of the Los Angeles elite. If that garners the polite, swift and courteous management of all my daily idiot mistakes, I could get used to it. For example, yesterday morning, I almost backed into my husband’s car because I didn’t realize, even after walking outside, getting into my car and turning it on, that he was parked behind me in the driveway. The other day at work, in attempting to put the lid on a giant barrel of pretzels, I dropped the whole thing on the ground, scattering Bavarian snacks all over the place. This morning, I walked into a low table while getting something to drink and then proceeded to knock over the glass of water with my elbow.
You see, my problem isn’t that I’m a long-limbed, bumbling klutz – it’s that I’m being expected to do things.
Someone get on that.