My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [29]
“I came superclose to blowing it,” I admit.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Poppy reassures me.
“Bup, bup, bup—hear me out. We went to a restaurant a couple of blocks west of here, and they had their big front window open so people could eat inside or on the sidewalk. We opted for in, what with the sweat pouring into the crack of my ass and all.”
Angie shudders. “Matthew Broderick said it best. This place is Africa hot. Tarzan couldn’t take this kind of hot.”
“Anyway, this totally chichi place is filled with what looks like a bunch of extras from Gossip Girl and it’s nine thousand degrees in there and none of them is sweating. No one. The producer kept asking me questions, but instead of really listening and giving him the kind of insightful answers that will get me on Survivor—”
“Wait, I thought this was for Great Weekends?” Angie asks.
“In my mind it would lead to Survivor.58 Anyway, I couldn’t stop bitching about how hot it was and begging the server to crank the air. And why wasn’t anyone else hot? Some of the guys were in blazers and long pants! Eating big, creamy plates of pasta! In billion-degree heat! Not a bead on them! What’s up with that, Upper East Siders? Are you some superior breed born without sweat glands?”
Poppy snickers and says, “Privilege doesn’t perspire.”
“Too freaking true. I finally just scooped some ice out of my glass, stuffed it in my napkin, and began to hold it against the back of my neck to keep my brain stem from melting.59 Good thing I did, because an entire conversation about my ass crack was about to tumble forth, and I managed to head it off at the pass, which I’m sure is the only reason they agreed to let me be on the Chicago episode.”
“Well done!” Poppy cheers.
“Yes!” Angie exclaims, and we all clink glasses. “So, what’s the hotel like?”
Poppy and I reply at the same time. “As expected.” “Bizarre.”
“You go first,” Poppy says.
“Well, I tried to go downstairs and pay for my room because I didn’t realize how swanky it was when Poppy invited me and I didn’t want to take advantage.”
“No! You’re my guest,” Poppy argues.
“Well, it’s a nonissue. The snotty door guy was all, ‘We don’t accept cash, check, or credit card. You can’t pay for a room unless you’re a member. ’ And then while I’m trying to figure out what to do next, this Rolls-Royce deposits some lady out front, and the guy has to go and let her in. Then he’s got to take her up to her room because she’s carrying a great big hatbox.”
“When was the last time anyone bought anything in a frigging hatbox?” Angie asks.
“Exactly! So I was all, ‘Fine, screw it. I’ll just go with it.’ I kept thinking back to you yesterday, Angie. You just dove right in, and I thought maybe it’s time for me to tear a page out of your book.”
I hold up my pink cocktail and silently salute her while I continue. “I decided I’d try to get into the spirit of the place since I’m probably never going to have this kind of opportunity again. I went back up to my room and stood out on the balcony. The wind was blowing a little finally and the sun was starting to set and all I could see were manicured roof gardens and maids walking little yip-yip dogs. Seriously, there was opulence everywhere I looked. And, I don’t know, I guess I was overcome by how glamorous and otherworldly it was, and I suddenly felt like I was on Gossip Girl. I found myself stepping up a little bit on the cement balcony barrier with my arms spread out in the wind shouting, ‘I am Blair Waldorf!’ I dove in, you know, and it was incredibly liberating.”
Getting a glimpse of New York that so few other people have seen, I felt younger and thinner and wealthier, and I suddenly had the urge to buy a whole bunch of headbands.
I continue. “But then someone on a roof nearby must have heard me because they shouted back, ‘No, you’re not,’ and that freaked me out. Sometimes when you dive in, you hit the bottom and break your neck, you know?