My Gym Playlist Indicates That I Might Be Into Hardcore, Kinky Sex (Which, Am I?)

The other morning I was working out intensely at the gym while listening to Beyoncé’s limousine-blowjob song “Partition” at full-blast on my headphones and envisioning myself as the male lead in my own mental remix music video.

This fact is funny in and of itself, because I’m a lanky white guy from Connecticut with a generally awkward demeanor and a wardrobe from Kohl’s comprised mostly of unassuming sweaters.

gymmemeOther songs that really get my juices flowing (pun totally intended) at the gym include the vulgar whips-and-chains anthem, “S&M” by Rihanna; the strip club hymn, “Pour It Up” by Rihanna; that song about penises called “Rude Boy” by Rihanna; aaand… “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by Simon and Garfunkel.

(Just kidding about that last one. What I really meant to say was “My Neck, My Back” by Khia.)

(Side note: If you’re unfamiliar with “My Neck, My Back,” then I highly suggest you look it up on YouTube right now. Actually, just click this link. Especially if you’re at work. In fact, take your headphones off and let it play aloud. It’s totally not NSFW… it’s SFW, if that’s a thing. Crank up the volume, too – the song’s uplifting lyrical content will motivate you and your coworkers to be your best selves, and then you’ll all be really productive, and then your company’s stock will go up, like, a lot of points, and then your boss will notice that this positive chain reaction all originated from your desk, and then you’ll get a raise. And you won’t even have to give me a cut, because I’m selfless. You’re welcome.)

(Side note again: I’m sorry if I just got you fired. I SWEAR I DIDN’T MEAN TO. I was just being a practical joker. And it’s not my fault your boss is such a douche canoe.)

(Side note again: I know this was like, two paragraphs ago and the moment has passed, but can we talk about how I referred to “Pour It Up” as a strip club hymn up there? What the fuck was I thinking with that choice of words? And am I going to hell?)

Anyway, I’m just writing this post because I think it’s interesting how it took me ten years of being a gym-goer to finally become aware of the fact that I’m essentially a classic example of a “lady in the street but a freak in the bedroom.”

Except replace “lady” with “wholesome gay man.” And also I guess by “bedroom” what I really mean is the in-my-head-while-I-have-motivational-daydreams-at-the-gym-of-myself-and-Nick-Jonas-dry-humping-on-the-elegant-chaise-lounge-that-I’m-sure-he-has-in-the-corner-of-his-real-life-bedroom-bedroom. In the actual bedroom, if I’m being totally honest, I’m more likely to watch the OWN Network, read a book, maybe do a Bioré pore strip if I’m feeling frisky, and go to sleep by eleven. But still.

Okay, I think I’ve revealed enough about myself and my inner demons for one post.

Now, what do YOUR favorite workout songs say about you? Feel free to get vulgar in the comments.

 

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A Brief History of My Cosmic Connection with Mariah Carey

1993: I am five years old and watching TV unsupervised when I happen upon the music video for “Dreamlover.” Who is this perfect woman? I ask myself. I spend the remainder of the year emulating the video – frolicking in open fields and longing for a hot air balloon to whisk me away.

1994: Mariah releases her inaugural Christmas album, Merry Christmas. My dad tells me that holiday stuff is always cheaper after Christmas, so in an effort to seem like I understand how money works, I ask him to buy me the CD on December 26th… at full price.

1995: “Fantasy.” Enough said.

1996: While flipping through the C’s at the local music store, I learn that there are still many Mariah releases I do not own. I embark on a fanatical campaign to acquire her entire catalog – including CD maxi-singles and VHS concert tapes. I also spend hours meticulously furnishing a lavish Mariah scrapbook, which essentially becomes my Sistine Chapel. While in the midst of compiling information for the scrapbook, I discover that Mariah and I share the same birthday (327 WHAT WHAT), and the whole thing is a lot like that moment in The Princess Diaries where Anne Hathaway learns she is of royal blood. (Or something? I don’t remember The Princess Diaries accurately.)

1997: Mariah releases her magnum opus (/the answer to everything ever), Butterfly, and ALL BETS ARE OFF. This CD becomes my best friend and helps me cope with everything from my parents’ divorce to my frequent existential crises to my destructive and crippling addiction to Oreos. (I was clearly a very damaged nine-year-old.)

1998-2002: I continue to follow and support everything Mariah does, but in an effort to fit in with my friends (all of whom are boys who somehow don’t understand diva-worship), I do so secretively – effectively going into the Mariah-closet. As a result, I become dead on the inside.

2003: High school begins. I clandestinely attend a Mariah concert alone and feel the presence of God in the theater.

2005: The stellar Emancipation of Mimi album is released. I hesitantly reveal my extreme excitement to my best friend Fran, who is also a huge fan, and she effectively drags me out of the Mariah-closet. Like Mimi, I am emancipated.

2006-2011: With each passing year, I grow more and more outspoken and unapologetic with my public love of MC. I go to concerts. I stand in my truth. Mariah eventually just becomes an inextricable part of my persona and identity.

2012: I am twenty-four and working in music and television in New York City. I manage to finagle my way onto the guest list for a random launch party for a Caesar’s Palace thing at Gotham Hall, where Mariah is making a rare appearance and performing. I bring Fran as my plus one. The setting is living room-intimate, Mariah’s eyes sync up with mine twice, and life is a dream. Much to my chagrin, though, Mariah and I don’t get to formally meet. But I take what I can get.

2013: A friend of mine who works for Jimmy Fallon surprises me with tickets to a taping of a Fallon-Mariah interview in promotion of “The Art of Letting Go.” Mariah and I still don’t get to meet, but again I take what I can get.

2014:

Monday, February 10th: Mariah puts out a teaser for her new single, “You’re Mine (Eternal).”

Tuesday, February 11th: I read a press release early in the morning that states that there will be two versions of the song released on Wednesday, along with a video premiere and a Mariah interview TAPED LIVE FROM THE TELEVISION NETWORK FOR WHICH I WORK. I freak out for about twenty minutes over how there’s a chance I won’t be allowed anywhere near the taping, but my hysteria is calmed when I get a phone call from a colleague close to the production who is aware of my status as a Mariah disciple and gets me on the list.

Wednesday, February 12th: I spend the entire day in a perpetual state of nervous excitement. When it’s finally time for the taping, I head up to the floor of the studio and feel as though I’m living in a surreal alternate universe. As I’m standing outside the studio entrance, I see Mariah’s entourage emerge from the hallway, followed by the deity herself. She is everything I expect her to be and more – wearing heels, calling people “dahling,” and radiating an energy of playfulness. Mariah’s best friend RaeRae (whom I immediately recognize from Instagram and the song lyrics to “’Betcha Gon’ Know”), takes a spot beside me as we wait for Mariah to make her formal entrance onscreen. Mariah stops right in front of the both of us for a last-minute touch-up, smiles at me as if we know each other, and I have to restrain myself from reaching out and pulling her into my arms for an impromptu embrace.

Backstage during the taping, I go back and forth in my head trying to think of ways to introduce myself to RaeRae without looking like a total creeper. I finally settle for, “Hi! I’m Nic. I totally recognize you.” We proceed to have a conversation about photo booths and dogs and children in which I’m awkward and blubbering on account of the fact that I’m FREAKIN’ TALKING TO MARIAH CAREY’S BEST FRIEND, but we eventually exchange Twitter handles, so I decide that I couldn’t have been that embarrassing. (Or RaeRae is just really accustomed to being fanatically approached by Mariah-obsessed weirdoes. Probably that.)

When the taping ends, the wonderful guy who got me on the list (to whom I am eternally grateful) pulls me into the studio where Mariah is hanging out and drinking Dom Perignon with husband Nick Cannon, Jermaine Dupri, MTV’s Sway, and a number of other people who are all desperately trying to get as close as possible to her. I recognize that the odds of my getting any one-on-one time in which to actually talk to her are slim to none, as there’s simply too much competition with people who actually seem to know her from somewhere. I come to terms with this quickly, though, and am willing to take what I can get. (As per usual.)

During a random photo op in which I’m creepily hovering/mouth-breathing over Mariah’s head, RaeRae pulls out her phone and takes a quick video. Later on, the Dom Perignon gets passed around and I take a swig directly from the bottle. Yes. I take a swig of Mariah Carey’s Dom Perignon. From. The. Bottle. After about twenty more minutes, it’s time for her to leave. I give her a smile and a wave and a round of applause, and she reciprocates. (Minus the applause, but whatever.)

At the end of it all, I go downstairs to my work-wife Mila’s office, where I’m delighted to find her still working past nine o’clock. Still on a Mariah-high, I give Mila a highly dramatic retelling of the night’s events. We then log in to Facebook and find that the video RaeRae spontaneously took earlier has just been posted. TO MARIAH’S OFFICIAL PAGE.

Screen shot 2014-02-13 at 8.19.34 AM

Did I quickly scan through the 1,000+ video comments to see if anyone referenced the weird dude in the back? No…

For the remainder of the night, I ride a feeling of floating all the way home to my apartment. It’s as if I’ve been whisked away by a hot air balloon. The experience of the past three hours has confirmed that what I’ve always said is indeed true: Only three things matter in the end – how much you loved, how much you forgave, and how many times you were in the presence of Mariah Carey.

 

Recent Conversations I’ve Had About the BEYONCÉ Visual Album

With my writing pal Steven:

  • Nic: Dude. I have listened to nothing else for weeks. I stayed home today because of the snow and ended up just sitting on my couch watching the videos in sequential order. Over and over again. For many hours.
  • Steven: Has anyone ever told you that you have an obsessive personality?
  • Nic: I just can’t stop. It’s like I’ve been sucked into a black hole.
  • Nic: The black hole that is Beyoncé’s vagina.
  • Nic: I’M TRAPPED IN BEYONCÉ’S VAGINA.
  • Steven: You’re scaring me.

With my work-wife Mila:

  • Mila: Try watching the videos while eating like a fat pig.
  • Mila: You will feel so inadequate.
  • Nic: I just don’t get how these videos can be so perfect.
  • Nic: And there’s SO MUCH SEX.
  • Mila: I know!
  • Nic: And all of this sex is with a man she’s been with for years and is married to, so it’s super classy. Like, Beyoncé is singing about giving a raunchy limo blowjob and meanwhile I’M the one who is made to feel like a dirty, inferior slut for having multiple partners.
  • Mila: I KNOW!

With myself:

  • Nic: Two more viewings of “Drunk In Love” and then I’ll shower.
  • Nic: Okay, maybe three.
  • Nic: SURF BORDT!
  • Nic: Four.
  • Nic: After the fifth one, I swear I’m going to get my shit together and do something productive with my life.
  • Nic: Fuck it.
  • Nic: Six.

With God:

  • Nic: THANK YOU FOR CREATING THIS WOMAN IN YOUR IMAGE.
  • God: You’re welcome.
  • God: …Surf bordt.

 

Let’s Talk About Gratitude

The other day I had the privilege of sitting in on an intimate luncheon event at MTV for Hispanic Heritage Month, which featured an interactive chat with the network’s resident chica Melanie Iglesias, star of Guy Code/Girl Code/Guy Court.

In addition to being a presence on approximately nine thousand MTV shows, Melanie is a freaking hottie. Such a hottie, in fact, that her initial break into the entertainment industry happened as a result of being selected by Maxim magazine out of 7,000 girls as the #1 Hometown Hottie of 2010. The woman is stunning.

I mean, see for yourself:

Ignore my weirdness and just focus on the beautiful woman, please.

Ignore my weirdness and just focus on the beautiful woman, please.

In spite of this fact, though — because let’s face it, I’m the gayest man ever and so female hotness can only go so far in terms of winning my admiration — what I like most about Melanie is her relentlessly positive spirit and overall #GoodEnergy.

When asked about how she maintains a consistent level of happiness, she shared that she is simply “grateful to be healthy and alive,” and then questioned how someone could manage to not be happy when approaching every day from such a place of gratitude. She also talked about how we’re all a part of something much larger than ourselves, at which point you know I had to ask her if she was spiritual and/or into meditation.

Interestingly, though not a meditator, she did share that she believes we are all here for a specific purpose, and that her end-of-the-day mission is to contribute to the betterment of humanity in any way and on any level she can — which totally kind of proves that she’s intuitively spiritual anyways, which, don’t you just wish more celebrities were like that?

Spirituality aside, though, Melanie’s initial statement about the correlation between gratitude and happiness resonated with me. It brought me back to a positive place after having gotten a little off track lately.

As a Super Soul Sunday disciple and perpetual seeker, I’ve read and watched quite a bit on the topic of gratitude. I’ve practiced it, too. And, as cliché as it may sound, I have found it to be the most effective way to get over pretty much any negative energy that may manage to creep its way into our consciousness every now and then. And as if that weren’t enough, the universe typically rewards those who are genuinely grateful for what they have now with more to be grateful for later. It’s just like, a law.

So with all of this in mind, I’d like to share a ridiculously small (or just plain ridiculous, whatever) list of things I’m grateful for right now:

  • Pumpkins.
  • The tree outside my apartment window.
  • Mariah Carey’s life-changing 1997 masterpiece album Butterfly.
  • My incredible support system of family and friends and yes, I’m being that guy right now.
  • Clarity.
  • All the life basics. (Seriously, how blessed are we simply to have health and homes and food and, like, water? That alone is pretty much enough for me to be all, “Sit your ass down, Nic,” every time I’m tempted to spiral into a rejection-fueled pity party of any kind.)
  • Cardio. When I actually do it.
  • My brother and his fiancée, and the fact that I’m going to Best Man the shit out of their wedding in January.
  • Books. ALL the books.
  • This photo of Jake Shears. (Note: If your boss happens to be a total dick, then this may be construed as NSFW. But if your boss isn’t a total dick, then please click, enjoy, and thank me/Jake later.)
  • Oprah.
  • Oprah.com.
  • OWN, the Oprah Winfrey Network.
  • O, the Oprah Magazine.
  • O-K, I’m done now. (See what I did there?)
  • Singer/Songwriter/my friend Joey, whose recent Facebook post on what he’s grateful for totally conspired with the Melanie lunch to inspire this post. Thanks, Joey!
  • The Bloggess.
  • Cheesecake.
  • Anything cute.

Last but really totally first, I’m grateful for y’all. For reading me, putting up with me, encouraging me, and supporting me. Especially when I’m freaking blog-M.I.A. half the damn time. Your love is honestly just… like, seriously. Thank you.

OK so before I start crying and having a totally uncalled for “I LOVE YOU SO MUCH AND I DON’T KNOW HOW TO DEAL WITH ALL OF THESE EMOTIONS I JUST LOVE YOU OMG OPRAH SAVE ME” moment, please jump in.

What are you grateful for today?

 

My Team Lost — but I’m OK and Thank You, Mariah Carey

Remember how at the beginning of this year’s football season I wrote that whole post about how I went to the Pats home opener after having spent most of my summer wasting time with that guy who called me fat and a variety of other noncommittal a-holes? And then we lost?

Well, yeah. That pretty much happened again last week. Except this time, instead of losing a game at the beginning of the regular season, we lost in the AFC Championship — and I just… I can’t deal.

For those of you who aren’t into football — this means that our season is over, we aren’t going to the Super Bowl, and yes, I’m using terms like our and we — and yes, I’m being a baby about it.

Here’s a picture of me pretending to grill a mere five hours before my dreams were crushed:

Gronk

Sigh. I vaguely remember what it’s like to smile like that.

Okay, I’m going to stop being lugubrious now and start writing about how Mariah Carey makes life worth living.

Yes, I’m talking about Idol. If you follow me on Twitter, then you already know how I feel about this — I think it is the greatest thing to happen to the world ever. Or it’s at least in the top three.

In fact, here is a list of the top three best things to happen to the world ever:

  1. Sliced bread
  2. Mariah Carey
  3. Mariah Carey as a judge on American Idol

Seriously, y’all. It’s amazing. The fact that the we can all now see Mariah’s hilarity and brilliance and amazing facial expressions in a natural setting (sitting at a table beside Nicki Minaj, even!) for a full two hours every week is, frankly, a modern miracle.

If I ever had a doubt that Mariah and I were soul mates, it disappeared when Nicki called her a bitch and she was just like (to everyone and no one), “If she called me something that begins with a ‘B’ and ends with an ‘itch,’ I rebuke it.”

MARIAH SAYS “REBUKE.”

And that’s just a small example of why she’s perfect.

Literally everything she does is entertaining. And the best part about it is that you can tell that she’s just like, there, and on some level she realizes how ridiculous the Nicki feud is (and how ridiculous life is, really) and so she’s just calm and smart and occasionally British.

So, yeah. With that in mind, click HERE to see my official response to the Pats loss last week (and really, as already admitted elsewhere, my official response to everything ever).

And like Mariah said to the guy who didn’t make it to Hollywood who I’m pretty sure she was only half-listening to anyways (because I know I would have been) — there’s always next year.

 

 

Cruel Intentions is the Best Movie Ever, and I Have the Tweets and Emotional Issues to Prove It

If there were an Oscar category for “Most Perfect Teen Movie that Totally Transcends the Category of Teen Movies and Makes a Deep Statement About Love and Trust and Innocence and the Human Condition at Large,” then Roger Kumble’s 1999 drama Cruel Intentions would so be the winner.

Cruel Intentions is a genius high school adaptation of Dangerous Liaisons set in wealthy upper Manhattan well before Gossip Girl was a thing.

It stars the hottest, most damaged version of Ryan Phillippe ever, and — actually, wait, why am I doing a synopsis? If you haven’t seen this movie, then I think we’re going to have to stop being friends until you do some real soul-searching and address the major deficiency in your character as a result of having never been exposed to this masterpiece of a film in the whole fourteen years since its groundbreaking release.

I recently made one of the best decisions of my life when I stayed home on a Friday night to re-watch it for the first time in two years (a record for me).

Here I am live-tweeting the event, and you’re welcome in advance:

Screen shot 2013-01-19 at 12.13.33 PM

Wait for it…

Screen shot 2013-01-19 at 12.13.54 PM

And three hours later…

Screen shot 2013-01-19 at 12.14.20 PM

Impressively, I only lost four followers that day.

You may be wondering why this film has the ability to move me to tears (and tweets), and well, I can’t answer that question in any simple terms. I suspect it has a lot to do with the fact that I always fall for Sebastians — you know, heartless yet insanely charming men who want nothing more than to jump from bed to bed without ever actually getting emotionally invested in anyone or anything.

Everyone always gives the classic argument that “you can’t make a man like that change” — and yet, in Cruel Intentions, someone changes him. The jerk falls in love! And with a sweet, innocent good girl — a virgin, even — named Annette.

And so my life’s goal has been to be the gay male version of Annette. And I’ve failed in this quest with like, I don’t know, fourteen-thousand Sebastians or something. And so when I watch Cruel Intentions, I get very emotional over the fact that it’s a cruel reminder (see what I did there?) of the fact that Annettes only exist in the movies.

And even then, the Sebastian dies — so the moral of the story is that LOVE NEVER WORKS AND HOW CAN YOU NOT HAVE AN EMOTIONAL REACTION TO THAT?

dvd

This movie is just… I just… Stick a fork in me, I am done.

 

Don Draper Guy and Nicolas: An Imaginary Love Story

Remember last summer when I arrived five years late to the Heroes party and watched the entire series on DVD in the course of about a week?

Well, that’s happening again. Except this time it’s with the superior drama Mad Men.

What do I love most about Mad Men? Probably the fact that it’s about chauvinistic male advertising executives being hot. It turns out that I have a real soft spot for pompous manly men with archaic values and a tendency to demean women. I want one to demean me! Preferably while we’re making love after I’ve cooked him dinner. (Of course.)

You can imagine my excitement when, this morning on the train, I encountered a man who was the absolute embodiment of Mad Men heartthrob Don Draper. (The Metro-North is of course filled with hot, suited businessmen on any given day, but this guy was exceptionally Draper-esque.)

As I sat across from Don Draper Guy, I couldn’t help but notice that he was wearing a wedding band. I then couldn’t help but imagine the following love story in my head (written in italics so as to aid the reader in distinguishing glorious fantasy from depressing reality):

Don Draper Guy and I share in intense eye contact for approximately thirty seconds. He then makes a weird half-kiss, half-bite gesture with his lips that I correctly interpret as a declaration of his love for me. He slips me a note with his cell phone number on it. We immediately begin a soft-core sexting session right there on the train amidst the oblivious commuters who may or may not happen to notice that Don Draper Guy and I are digitally consummating our relationship before their eyes, but choose not to acknowledge it because, like all commuters in the New York metropolitan area before 10:00am, they’re miserable.

After several minutes of continued sexting action, Don Draper Guy ups the ante by suggesting that we both get off the train at the next stop, go back to Connecticut (via his private car service that he decided not to use that morning in an effort to be more down to earth) and look for houses with his realtor.

“What about your wife?” I say, and he shrugs. I correctly interpret his shrug as, “Oh, is this ring still on? My ex-wife and I have been divorced since this morning, and I’m now totally available and gay and in love with you! Will you marry me?”

I say yes, we buy a house, and I quit my job to take care of the children from his previous marriage while he keeps doing important business-y things in New York.

I start crossing paths with Don Draper Guy’s ex-wife while picking up the kids from soccer practice. Though our relationship starts off acrimoniously, we slowly bond and eventually become besties who meet for tea and talk about everything — including Don Draper Guy’s bedroom prowess. Alex and Sandy (my step-kids) love the fact that their mom and gay step-dad are able to be in the same room together without going all Madonna-and-Elton on each other every five minutes.

Our whole unconvential family arrangement troubles some of our more conservative neighbors, but I don’t care because we own enough acreage for our neighbors’ opinions to be non-factors. Also, Don Draper Guy loves and adores me and comes home from work every night to tell me how perfect and not fat I am.

We obviously live happily ever after.

It takes a very special type of desperate gay man to be able to dream up the above scenario, so I hope you’re impressed.

Here’s what actually happened between myself and Don Draper Guy:

He compulsively checked his BlackBerry while I stared creepily in his direction and possibly drooled a little. At one point, he crossed his legs at the knee — a daring train-move that exposed his argyle sock-covered left ankle. I briefly visualized him sitting at the edge of his bed sexily putting the sock on earlier that morning. Then a weird bug/fly thing started buzzing around us and he heroically shooed it away, which I construed as him caring about my well-being. Then we got to Grand Central and he disappeared immediately into the sea of emerging commuters walking toward the main terminal.

I proceeded to power-walk my way to work while wishing I could have just stayed home and watched Mad Men all day.

 

How Prada Made Me Realize I’m Bad at Being a Gay Stereotype

Last week I accompanied a friend to the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s annual post-Pride gala, which happened to coincide with the museum’s current Prada (as in The Devil Wears Prada) exhibition. Apparently fashion is art. I’m not sure when this happened exactly, as I was probably too busy going to grad school to allow myself to walk by a retail display window and think, “Wow, that shoe is so deep. It should be in a museum.”

Two things:

  1. I’ve never really thought of myself as the type of person who’d show up to a fancy gay gala and high-end fashion exhibit wearing an Old Navy shirt and brown shoes with a black belt… but it seems that I am that type of person, and I might be okay with that.
  2. I’m also the type of person who unabashedly takes pictures in high-end fashion exhibits with my phone, and for that, you’re welcome, because those pictures will be featured here to tell the story of how I’m a repressed dominatrix trapped in a Mennonite’s body. Or something. (This may or may not make sense later.)

Given the above, I was of course judged by many a pretentious gay man throughout the evening. However, I was having way too much fun abusing the open bar to really take issue with such trivialities. I was also busy trying to figure out a way to approach Wilson Cruz, who was in attendance, and let him know that I loved him in the season one Christmas episode of Ally McBeal where he portrayed a down-on-her-luck transvestite prostitute.

Wilson and I never connected, mainly because I kept losing him. Between the drinking and the abundance of people, my stalking abilities (which are typically beyond reproach) were challenged.

                            Army of gays invades the Met, Prada to blame.

Eventually, we finished our cocktails and meandered into the Prada exhibit just before it closed for the evening.

If you were thinking that a museum exhibit of Prada fashion would simply look like a bunch of clothes on mannequins, then you would be correct. That is exactly what it looked like. However, some additional details helped to vaguely legitimatize the whole thing:

  • The mannequins had bizarre Lucha Libre-style wrestling masks covering their faces. It was both creepy and awesome.
  • Moody lighting.
  • There were little descriptions of the clothing on fancy plates that used seemingly big words like “subvert” and “harbinger.”

Naturally, I started trying to figure out which Prada mannequin most represented who I am on the inside. The answer came to me when I found one wearing a kick-ass mask and a super-sexy black dress with a plunging neckline.

                                  I’m feisty and will dominate you in bed.

This mannequin, I thought, is in the driver’s seat of her life. She knows what she wants, and she’s not afraid to take it. Wear a crazy mask that makes it look like I might sexually assault my doorman when I get home just because it’s Tuesday? Don’t mind if I fucking do. And I’ll do it with my fake mannequin boobs all up in your face, too! Because I can.

Me relating to this possibly-criminal minx of a mannequin probably lasted for about thirty more seconds until I discovered the more likely representation of my true self:

                            Don’t say the word “sex” around me, I might melt.

Yep. I am any one of these super conservative wives of Republican men who golf. Or if I’m not one of them, then they are for sure my bitches. We definitely have at least, like, ninety-seven things in common — starting with early bedtimes, an appreciation for perfect vacuum streaks, and the crippling need for a husband. The presence of these women was supremely ironic, as they, like me, could clearly give a shit about fashion. They probably showed up just to fuck with people and laugh later, and I admire them for that.

As I stood in amazement of my mannequin soul mates, a well-dressed young man approached from behind and said, “Ah, brilliant! All of the pleating is an illusion. Oh, Prada!

I wanted to respond meaningfully, but all I could think about was how desperately I wished I could sip martinis with my mannequin bitches while having a roundtable discussion about how hilarious his statement was.

Moments later, my real-life friend with whom I came to the event retrieved me and we proceeded to leave. As we escorted ourselves out, I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the Met’s mirrors. I saw the reflection of a snobby fashion-hater who’s marginally attractive but could probably be way hotter if dressed in nice clothes and given a dramatic facial makeover — much like Anne Hathaway’s character during the entire first half of The Devil Wears Prada. I apparently am that type of person as well.

And I might be okay with that.

 

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