Dear 21 Year Old Me,
Your roommate, Chelsea, just got a bartending job at really swanky place downtown. It’s one of those places that only famous people or people who know people are allowed in. You aren’t one of those people and the only people you know are your friends. And they know nobody. Now that she has this job, she’s getting you into a party tonight! And it’s not just any party – it’s a Toronto Film Festival Party. Man, you are stoked. But there’s a catch: you’re the only one she can sneak in and you have to come with her three hours before the party starts. This should be your first sign to not go to the party. But it won’t be.
You’ll think to yourself “I’m cool, I make friends easily and I am wearing an amazing dress.” You should note that it was about this time in your life that you are healing from a breast reduction surgery (because your back could no longer hold up your gigantic G cup size) and you sure are proud to be wearing a strapless white dress. Something you could never wear before. Your girls are out & you’re at a Hollywood party. Life is perfect.
Stop yourself now. Do not pass go. Leave the party now, Haas! Do not approach Cuba Gooding Jr. and say “Show me the Money”. Because you will instantly regret it. You’ll think to yourself… famous people are just people, right? Wrong. They are people who make movies who scowl at people who make stupid comments. Ah well… You’ll drink another fun, pink drink and instantly force yourself to forget the last two minutes.
Now you’re feeling the groove. You see Orlando Bloom from across the way and you’re going to decide that “you’ve made it.” Like… in life. So you’ll make your way to the dance floor. “Oooo, something is blowing cool air up my dress!” You’ll look around to discover you’re standing over a vent. What a welcome surprise in this steamy party room! As the fan blows your skirt upwards, you flirtatiously push it down a la Marilyn. Just for your information, you couldn’t be less cool right now. Read on…
Finally a “friend,” meaning a busboy is comes up you and whispers to turn around. You do and you see a gigantic mirror behind you. Leave the party now. Do not collect $100. Just leave! Not only are you imitating Marilyn Monroe at some Film Festival party (barf) but your white dress is being blown up around your ears to reveal your nude colored “Spanks” holding your everything in. People are being polite, but they all see what’s going on. You should take this as yet another sign to leave.
You’re feeling disgruntled but not entirely. You pull yourself together, look at the landscape of the room and think “I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Two older gentlemen saunter their way up to you. Oh yeah, you’ve definitely made it (no you haven’t). “Men the age of your father are about to hit on me!” you think to yourself. They introduce themselves. You coyly tell them your name. It’s happening. You’re on fire tonight, Ingrid! Mid conversation one of them says “Can I ask you a question?” And without skipping a beat, you say “They’re real.” Because they are! But that’s not what he was going to ask you, you jackass. He sort of chokes and says, “What? No? We wanted to know … How did you get into this party?”
And with that… You’re going to finish that pink drink. Wave a meek goodbye to Chelsea and head out the door.
You don’t need to go to those parties, Ingrid. They aren’t fun anyway. Go play “bocci” with your friends who don’t know anyone. One day you’ll live far, far away from them and wish you could stay in on a Tuesday on the couch with them. Those parties will always happen and you’ll never feel good about being at them… because they suck.
Even if you’re invited and you don’t act like a fool.
Your future self.
Image via Daily Mail UK