On Friday night, I went to an art party. I'm often a little nervous about art parties —openings, galas, and the like— because you rarely know what you're going to get. It could be great, you know? Or you could get costumed performance artists pantomiming copulation next to the vegetable dip.
It's difficult to dress for an art party, too. But since I overdress for everything, I decided on this outfit: a cashmere tank top, a magenta satin pencil skirt, a black and pink birdy necklace, and my favorite shoes (they have big pink hearts on them, and even men comment on how great they are). I don't know why I am even mentioning this ensemble apart from the fact that a couple of acquaintances made overtly sexual propositions that night. I was very flustered and confused by it all, and now I am wondering if maybe I looked more like an indie-rock hooker than an art patron.
Anyway, the art party was supposed to be all hush-hush because some big-timey musicians were to perform acoustic sets. I probably should have been nervous because I'm a fan of one of the musicians' work. If the 17-year-old me had been there, I would have very sincerely told him how his band's first two records were the soundtrack to me falling in lurve with a nice boy from the south suburbs. Or that sometimes I still listen to one of the songs (track8 9, album #2) and think of that summer, of racing down the sand dunes and night-swimming in Lake Michigan with our clothes on.
Except I'm not 17 anymore; I'm 26, and when you're 26 it seems like people often don't know how to react to that sort of sentiment. Besides, it's not like he hasn't heard variations on that compliment for years anyway. So when I was introduced to the musician in question:
Mutual acquaintance: Musician, this is Annie. Annie, this is Musician.
Me: Hi, Musician. It's nice to meet you.
Musician: Hello.
Me: Sorry my hands are so warm. (for the record, they were not sweaty; they were just very, very warm)
Musician: (Looks at me, looks at mutual acquaintance, looks around, walks away)
Me: And so we see the flight pattern of the North American male yet again.
It's difficult to dress for an art party, too. But since I overdress for everything, I decided on this outfit: a cashmere tank top, a magenta satin pencil skirt, a black and pink birdy necklace, and my favorite shoes (they have big pink hearts on them, and even men comment on how great they are). I don't know why I am even mentioning this ensemble apart from the fact that a couple of acquaintances made overtly sexual propositions that night. I was very flustered and confused by it all, and now I am wondering if maybe I looked more like an indie-rock hooker than an art patron.
Anyway, the art party was supposed to be all hush-hush because some big-timey musicians were to perform acoustic sets. I probably should have been nervous because I'm a fan of one of the musicians' work. If the 17-year-old me had been there, I would have very sincerely told him how his band's first two records were the soundtrack to me falling in lurve with a nice boy from the south suburbs. Or that sometimes I still listen to one of the songs (track
Except I'm not 17 anymore; I'm 26, and when you're 26 it seems like people often don't know how to react to that sort of sentiment. Besides, it's not like he hasn't heard variations on that compliment for years anyway. So when I was introduced to the musician in question:
Mutual acquaintance: Musician, this is Annie. Annie, this is Musician.
Me: Hi, Musician. It's nice to meet you.
Musician: Hello.
Me: Sorry my hands are so warm. (for the record, they were not sweaty; they were just very, very warm)
Musician: (Looks at me, looks at mutual acquaintance, looks around, walks away)
Me: And so we see the flight pattern of the North American male yet again.
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