Saturday, February 23, 2019     Volume: 19, Issue: 51

Santa Maria Sun / Humor

The following article was posted on July 3rd, 2018, in the Santa Maria Sun - Volume 19, Issue 18 [ Submit a Story ]
The following articles were printed from Santa Maria Sun [] - Volume 19, Issue 18

Nailed it

Rebecca realizes she doesn't have what it takes to live the high life

By Rebecca Rose

My job often takes me to certain places that require that I at least give the impression of having my collective shit together. This would be fine if I didn't find a way to exquisitely screw it up every time I'm called upon to mingle among the "Beautiful People."

A few weeks ago, I was invited to the grand opening of a rather fancy bar and restaurant. A normal person would walk in, have a drink, eat her meal, say thank you, and leave. I, of course, am not a normal person. I am a goddamn hot mess.

My first indication that I was thoroughly out of my element was when I entered the bar, which was adjacent to a lavishly decorated swimming pool. It was very Monte Carlo meets the back of the Viper Room where Johnny Depp probably does all his drugs. It's the kind of place where two bored heiresses would go on holiday to plan the murder of a wealthy spinster aunt.

Everyone was wearing big, flowing designer bohemian dresses and huge sunglasses to hide their faces, but I don't know exactly from who? Either this bar is a refuge for fashionable overdressed women on the run from the mafia, or there's something I don't know about the importance of hiding half of your face from strangers.

I, myself, was wearing jeans I got at Sears ($12.99 with my coupon club discount, y'all!) and a shirt that I once saw on a divorced mother of three on vacation in Palm Springs and asked her where she got it (also Sears). My aesthetic as of late is "elderly eastern European woman who works the door at a sex club and sells black market Viagra on the side," and honestly, I think I work the hell out of it.

I was trying hard to fit in or at least not be noticed. At the bar, where I quietly sipped an excessively garnished $18 drink that looked like the sad potted plants you find in the sale aisle at the Dollar Tree, everyone around me looked like they stepped out of the pages of Vogue Italia. Meanwhile, I looked like someone who just spent the last two nights sleeping in a Greyhound bus station. 

The couple next to me were talking about their latest fashion modeling gigs, as one does. I suddenly realized I was surrounded by models, perhaps on some sort of model excursion, released from their photoshoot prisons for the day to mingle among us common folk until they realized the real world is dirty and boring and went back to their glorious modeling lives.

The woman model was explaining to the male model how difficult it was to model in lingerie, because you see it's just so hard to make sure they get all your good angles in that kind of shoot. The male model was nodding and agreeing that yes, it was indeed very hard to do this. I was searching for a large paper bag I could crawl in and hide during all of this. That's when it happened.

I felt the sudden snap of my zipper. As I looked down, I realized the zipper of my beloved Sears jeans ($12.99, damn it) had popped open, leaving my underwear and crotch mostly exposed. I did the natural, sane thing to do at a bar when this happens, and reached down into my crotch, digging around to find the zipper and see if I could pull it up.

As I looked up, with one hand on my crotch and one hand on the palm frond-in-a-cup I was drinking, I realized the fashion models were staring at me. I smiled and nodded, keeping my hand firmly in place on the stuck zipper. "This is normal behavior," my smile told them, "because I am a normal person doing normal things."

The models recoiled back to smelling their cucumber water and I slunk out of the bar and back to the pool. A waiter eventually came around to ask if I was lost or something. The truth is, I am and I probably always will be. But at least my Sears coupon club comes with a money-back guarantee. Take that, fashion models.

Rebecca Rose just wants to fit in. Contact her at

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