Last night's activities included the body exhibit at the Leonardo. Dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant. And attendance at Salt Lake City's EVE party--which was supposedly a VIP event. But I'll get to that in a minute.
The Leonardo was the classy way to begin the evening. And though I prefer Cafe Molisse for Italian cuisine, the restaurant we went to did have a pretty good tortellini with spicy sausage and vodka sauce.
After we finished our meal, I popped down to the restroom before we headed to our next venue and while waiting in line, another woman joined. She took one look at me and with some concern, asked if I was cold. Given that Salt Lake is currently experiencing frigid temperatures, it might make sense to ask, but as she was referring to my freshly shaven scalp, I was thrown off. She ignored the fact that I didn't answer and asked her next question. Was my haircut for me or for someone else? I told her it was for me, and she launched into 1000 personal questions that I felt were not only were invasive, but frankly, none of her business.
I imagine that it's all very much what pregnant women feel like, especially toward the end of their pregnancy, when people feel the need to make inappropriate comments and touch their stomachs and whatnot.
The pitying looks and sympathetic bull crap from strangers are all the more unwelcome, especially because not only was I feeling quite healthy, but confident. Almost as if my baldness were a choice, and not a consequence of having poisons pumped through my body every three weeks.
I left the bathroom in a snit. Nothing irritates me more these days than little cheerleading sessions that I really don't need. Especially from strangers who know nothing of my situation. Really, it's all wasted on me.
My mood was quickly changed, however, when we walked over to the Salt Palace to get our VIP tickets. I turned around and a guy (beer on hand) looked at me and said, "You are really pretty." He ruined it by rubbing my head. But then as I thanked him and turned to walk away continued with, "God bless you," as if to say thank you for existing. Thank you for being the one beautiful thing I've seen all night [through my drunken haze]. Or maybe that's not quite what he meant, but that is how I chose to interpret it, and it perked me right up.
We walked around the Salt Palace and saw what there was to see, tried our hips at hula hooping, and signed our names on the stupid wall thing they had to sign. Then we walked over to the Museum of Art where the VIP party was meant to be. Almost immediately I was met with a girl who loved my hairstyle--or lack of one. And bless her, she really believed that I had done it on my own accord. And she spent a good several minutes telling me just how fierce and sexy I looked. Apparently she had in the past shaved her own hair some four times, and is a photographer and had done a photo shoot of 14 women who all shaved their heads as an art project. It was all very empowering until it came out that chemo was the reason I was minus one head of hair, and while she was encouraging to say that was not even something that had crossed her mind as a reason, she couldn't resist the temptation to tell me how strong I was and promise that I "can beat this!" We remained excellent friends throughout the party.
The party, though. . . Where can I start? It was the most spastic skein of people gathered together to enjoy Utah's local alcohol endeavors and the shoddy dj. From the deputy mayor, classy gays, to a handful of out of place Mormons (of which we were two) and a few Kardashian wannabes, it was hard to tell how the party was going to to turn out. And for the most part, it turned out to be like every church dance I ever attended as a youth. Just replace the punch and cookies with vodka, gin, and other spirits.
We passed the time making fun of the awkward guy who seemed to have come alone and just wanted to dance. He was dressed like a missionary, but the similarities ended there. Then the couple who paid too much money to show up in their Saturday grunge clothes. He was wearing a white track suit (I'd guess that he probably had the pockets cut out of) and she was wearing I'll fitting jeans and a t-shirt. They were. . . Impressive dancers all things considered. The couple who made out on the floor for ten minutes while either videoing themselves, or trying to capture the perfect make out selfie. The old people, including the lady in the shiny, metallic pants and her metallic boa. And the voluptuous lady who we thought had come with a date, but then ended up dancing provocatively with everyone, man or woman, gay or straight.
Unfortunately--or maybe fortunately--as we stood on the edge of the dance floor, making half-hearted efforts to dance, we were approached by "red sweater guy" who had basically been making eyes at us all evening, who invited us to come dance with him and the drunk girls he had previously befriended. They were all rather insistent that we dance, and so we did, under duress.
When we finally made our escape, we realized that we still had too much time before midnight. But we persevered. The dj got worse. His music choices made it impossible for me to even consider more dancing. Besides that, the dancing had died after a strange performance of hula hoop professionals came and performed. It might have been enjoyable to watch one, maybe two, of the performers. But after four or five of them, we were bored and the party really suffered. I went upstairs and watched a couple get married. It was a service they were offering, along with instant annulments in the morning if necessary.
By midnight, we had one phone broken and one phone stolen, our feet hurt, and none of us had found someone to share a kiss with at midnight. We did not pick up our "glass" of free champagne, and the dj missed the stroke of midnight with his poor excuse of a countdown.
All in all, though, I have to admit that I've spent worse New Year's Eves. And there were parts of the evening I enjoyed. It was a recipe that had the potential to be a totally awesome party, but fell flat. I'm pretty sure I could've planned a more "exclusive feeling" VIP party. Because whatever we were at was poorly attended and pretty cheap feeling. (Like, where was the wait staff handing out the hors d'oeuvres and champagne, and the nicely dressed attendees and. . . Does no one watch the movies and know how a fancy party is supposed to work?)
So now 2014 is over. What a crazy year it's been! Somehow, everything is different and yet, it's all the same as every other year. I've no idea what 2015 has in store for me, but, I have plenty of hopes and a few fears, and maybe even some goals. I guess we'll just have to see.
