MORTIFYING MOMENTS

I'm sure you did and it's long behind you, but the fact remians that while in it, well, while in the next day of it, you wonder how you'll ever, ever move on. 

But we do. And we did.

Of course I can laugh about it now, but this was truly a mortifying moment.

(you better leave comments and share! i'm putting it all out there!!)

It was our first 4th of July living in the US and after a lifetime of watching from the outside in, Marc and I pictured the happiest day on earth! A parade of all races, linked arm in arm, saluting the stars, stripes and Miller Genuine Draft. God Bless America. 

 As I shoved 2 more fashion magazines into our over stuffed beach bag, Marc shouted, “Nov, be sure to pack some clothes for later, we’re watching the fireworks with Darren and Nicole.”Marc casually knew Nicole from Toronto and after arriving in L.A, we had gone out a few times with her and her ‘manfriend’ Darren, an attractive venture capitalist in his 50’s. 

 I forced a pair of jeans, a worn out tunic and a dingy pitt-stained long sleeve shirt of Marc’s inside the bursting bag. Not our best outfits, but it was just fireworks on the beach and it would be dark anyway. When the lime reached the bottom of the last Corona four hours later, Marc and I slugged our sun soaked selves over to Darrens stunning beachfront condo.

 A bluish white film of sweat, slime and sunscreen, coats our bodies as we wait for Nicole to open the door. “It’s about time you got here!” she chirps, flinging the door open. I stare at her for a moment. Nicole is wearing a coral strapless sundress set off by a fresh pedicure and flawless hair and makeup. I look down at my grey feet, and haggard toenails in my massacred Birkenstocks. She looks as if she’s going to a wedding, while I resemble a leathery gypsy who sells wire bracelets on the Venice boardwalk. 

 My jaw drops and I think of the rags we brought to wear. Darren greets us and to no surprise, he looks razor sharp in a light grey suit. A suit for heaven sakes!! Marc looks like he’s ready to cut the lawn in faded brown cargo shorts, the dingy top and dusty green flip flops and this guy is in a suit! 

 Marc and I speed shower and attempt to wash off the inappropriate scent of beer and the Pacific. Scrambling around the bathroom, we panic at the embarrassment of being outrageously under dressed.Feeling ridiculous and past the point of no return, we head off to this mystery party. 

 My dreams of a casual evening are crushed as Darren pointing to the sign that reads Marina Del Ray Yacht Club. “That’s where we’re going tonight! It’s going to be a great party!” he said. The Italians parked out front warn me that we are in for a long night. Lamborgini. Ferrari. Mazzerati. The doormen, dressed in black 3 piece suits, look at us and their faces drop as if we were Hobbits. “Uh, you two can’t come in HERE looking like THAT.” He physically held Marc and I back, causing a scene. 

 Women in sequins and stockings begin to gather. Boiling water fills my face and my stomach feels emptier then a Dick Cheney appreciation party. Darren interrupts the melee saying, “They are with me.” As an investor in the Yacht Club, anyone with him is OK. 4 words shot us to VIP status. The doormen roll their eyes, give one last disgusted up and down look and let us in. I stammer, “We didn’t know. We’re Canadian.”

 Marc and I quickly scuttle past the band on the dance floor, trying not to be seen while scanning the crowd for a fellow outfit faux pas. From our prime time corner table, I survey the crowd. It is all Black professionals, 35-55 in age, a lot of couples in matching linen outfits, bachelors in suits with color coordinated alligator shoes and derby hats. It looks like a wedding with the theme of red white and blue. 

 There is no way I’m standing up again tonight. I am beyond the category of mortified. The best solution was to get drunk quickly and forget this ever happened. Fixed firmly in my seat, I had to laugh as Darren poured MOET into my champagne glass. A 4th I’ll never forget.