A few nights ago I hit up one of those hip and trendy places where people sip cocktails and wine as they trade gossip and judge the room. Admittedly, once in a blue moon, I like to partake in the frivolity of it all and be a total snooty bitch sipping and judging the rest in my rarely used but always stylin' Banana Republic shoes. As I sat with a friend praising the new knit style that Uggs had been pushing and the delicious little bits of toast and crab highlighted with citron and cilantro we noticed a small murder of glamazons and he-models stroll into the club. Dashingly gorgeous, one couldn't help but stare in awe and be jealous.
"They have to be models." My friend Amanda possesses a unique appraisal stare. Not only can she evaluate the class standing and net worth of a person in under a half-second, she's able to make an unusually accurate conjecture as to their profession with near Delphic precision.
I stared at them. It wasn't a bad guess, in fact it would all add up right. Still, to state it with such conviction and assurance, "How can you tell?"
"Now look..." she took a long sip from her drink and then placed it to her side as she collected herself for the seminar. "Take the guys for instance. The clothes they're wearing are this season's line. All top name brands: Prada, Junya Watanabe, Helmut Lang -"
"I only know of Prada," I said in a matter-of-factly tone.
"Jesus. You suck at being gay. Anyways, each is wearing at least two-thousand dollars worth of clothing and accessories."
"Okay," I replied, trying to absorb the look of the clothing.
"Now notice how good they look? The girls super skinny and eyeing anyone with food but only sipping a drink. The guys have faces with no stress lines and perfect bodies. They have to be models."
"But that doesn't mean anything. I know lawyers and accountants who make bank and wear these kinds of clothes and look that good."
"Yes," she countered, "but they have at least dark eyes, wrinkles, some sort of sign of stress or sleep deprivation. Those people make their money because they work 60 hour weeks and then try to fit in gym time, right?"
She had a point, the wildly successful, gorgeous people I know often were falling apart and their faces would usually show it one way or another. Plus, if I actually could meet them for a night out they were ready to crash by 10:30, and it was already near midnight.
"You make a good argument. Still, I think I need more proof. See that one girl is eating something."
"Oysters do not count as substantial food."
"Whatever. Hold on I'll be back. Restroom. Watch my drink," I excused myself and made my way to the bathroom. "And don't drink it!"
"I promise nothing!" she called back.
As I walked into the bathroom I took a quick minute to examine myself in the mirror. Dark bags under my eyes displayed my lack of sleep, and shallow shadows spoke of lines yet to come that would genetically mirror my mother's. "Damn," I muttered to myself. I guess the stress thing was true, though I was still lacking the Jumanji Wata-huza shirt or whatever.
I turned around at the sound. A few sinks down one of the he-models was bent over he sink. I saw his hands fly in rapid chopping motions like a chef dicing an onion. He then jerked his head back and moved it forward in one quick, fluid motion over the now visible tiny mirror.
Oddly enough my first thought was where on earth one even buys coke in Sacramento. I turned and left as he shook his head and wiped his nose. His eyes were as big as dinner plates and he looked like he had suddenly drank eight red bulls after being hit in the head with them. I made my way back to the bar to a waiting Amanda who was using all her self-restraint to not drink my cocktail as she stared a hole into it.
"So either it's 1986 or coke is back in style."
"Yes, they're models. You were right."
"Oh, yeah. Have to be then, the commoners can only afford meth and weed."
"Yeah. Hey you wanna go grab some frozen yogurt at the Yogurt Monkey? They're still open for another 30 minutes and it's only a dollar."
"Sounds like a plan," she moved to pick up her clutch and we left. I'm sure our seats were immediately taken by some other group of people who were now sipping drinks, trading gossip, and judging the room.