I swing my legs over the ropes that guard the VIP entrance. Always over (I’m 5’10), never under. I’m late to the H. Lorenzo x Mowalola event, and the line wraps around the block. I don’t want to be an asshole, but I hate waiting in lines; it just ruins everything.
“Hey, my friend is DJing right now. My name should be down,” I say.
The youngish security guard looks me up and down. I have made an adventurous choice for this type of crowd. Neon pink hoodie, bright orange vest, my Raimundo jeans, and Jeremy Scott animal print sneakers. I let him take me in and look over his shoulder. Hmmm… I will be swathed in darkness when he lets me in. Dark night, dark clothes, dark makeup, furs, hoods, leather accessories, and sunglasses. I don’t recognize anyone, but it’s hard to tell who anyone is because I can’t see after 8 pm without my glasses. Night blindness. I can still catch a vibe though.
“She’s in the bathroom,” Mr. Guard says, interrupting my squinting.
“Who?” I ask.
“The woman in charge of the list.”
That’s a drag. I want to dance. Lately, I’m going out in the name of music.
“So…can I go in?” I ask.
“Just wait for her to get back.”
That sounds fine. I wait. The outdoor smoking area is packed. I hope the inside mirrors this, maybe with people dancing instead of blowing smoke in each other’s eyes.
“You got instagram?” The guard asks me after about ten minutes of flirting.
“Can I go in?” I said.
He laughs. He lets me in the event without a wristband.