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fiona_gradyFor those of us who could not make it to the Costume Institute Gala at the Met (and only because the $7,500 a piece event was sold out in 24 hours), there was the next best thing last night. Granted, it was not at the Rockefeller Wing, but the rest of it was pretty close, including the red carpet walk, all the Beautiful People, and the wall of red roses.
Once an army of bouncers and gatekeepers clears you for entrance, you are ushered onto the other side of a velvet rope, and it is as if a magic wand was swept over you: everybody smiles and bows, girls in evening gowns escort you to the red carpet where an army of photographers awaits and starts clicking away, as if you were the biggest star in the world. It helps to maintain an anthropological interest and a sense of humor, otherwise silly things like why don't I own an $18,000 dress and a $2,500 pair of shoes might go to your head and ruin your evening completely.
So, anthropologically speaking, this is what I saw: most women were over 60 years old, with much work done both on their faces and on their bodies. Years of exercising and toning your legs do pay off when you are teetering all night on 7 inch stilettos. It is very rare, however, to see a woman who looks more than 10 years younger than she really is, in spite of all the expensive interventions and maintenance regiments. Luckily, the lights were dimmed most of the time, and the only giveaway of the real age of the women was the presence of their gray and wrinkled husbands. That is, unless they had a boy toy on their arm, but then their age really screamed at you. With the exception of husbands and escorts, all the other men in the room were gay. Now, talk about fabulous! And what a waste of magnificent bodies and perfectly chiseled faces lost forever for a womankind! Everybody tells everybody else how wonderful they look but it's all a big lie. In reality, everybody checks to confirm that everybody else has mall-bought dresses, last season shoes, less toned arms, and more wrinkles. It is uncool to stare at big celebrities but people try to sidle up to them discreetly and take photos with their smart phones anyway. Then, they run to the other side of the club and start tweeting. Busted!
There is an abundance of fabulous food but only men eat, while the women nibble on a single carrot that was actually cut as a flower because it was a garnish. There are two bars, and waiters pass wine, champagne and sparkling water all the time, but people grab full glasses only to have a sip, and then put full glasses down on lacquered black tables, where the waiters pick them up and take away. And you thought we had a recession going on?
There is music but very few people dance: the heels are too high, the makeup might get ruined, the husbands are arthritic. When yours truly and husband dearest are dancing, there is a swarm of photographers on us, they want to capture the moment of somebody having a good time.
And then realization strikes: people are too concerned about their looks, about their hair, they cannot eat or dance with abandon because at any time their photograph might be snapped and make it to a tabloid, what with their mouth open and a piece of tuna falling out, or their face sweaty and mascara running. People are too busy posing and preening, and standing close to the big stars, staking out positions and having plastered smiles on. This takes up so much effort that nobody is having a good time.
On the way out, there is a red carpet walk again, and at the door there are fabulous party gifts: exquisite totes filled with goodies. This is a consolation prize for not having a good time at the party, you can enjoy the gifts at home, far from the scrutiny of others, far from the cameras, in your slippers and bathrobe. Let the good times roll!
Once an army of bouncers and gatekeepers clears you for entrance, you are ushered onto the other side of a velvet rope, and it is as if a magic wand was swept over you: everybody smiles and bows, girls in evening gowns escort you to the red carpet where an army of photographers awaits and starts clicking away, as if you were the biggest star in the world. It helps to maintain an anthropological interest and a sense of humor, otherwise silly things like why don't I own an $18,000 dress and a $2,500 pair of shoes might go to your head and ruin your evening completely.
So, anthropologically speaking, this is what I saw: most women were over 60 years old, with much work done both on their faces and on their bodies. Years of exercising and toning your legs do pay off when you are teetering all night on 7 inch stilettos. It is very rare, however, to see a woman who looks more than 10 years younger than she really is, in spite of all the expensive interventions and maintenance regiments. Luckily, the lights were dimmed most of the time, and the only giveaway of the real age of the women was the presence of their gray and wrinkled husbands. That is, unless they had a boy toy on their arm, but then their age really screamed at you. With the exception of husbands and escorts, all the other men in the room were gay. Now, talk about fabulous! And what a waste of magnificent bodies and perfectly chiseled faces lost forever for a womankind! Everybody tells everybody else how wonderful they look but it's all a big lie. In reality, everybody checks to confirm that everybody else has mall-bought dresses, last season shoes, less toned arms, and more wrinkles. It is uncool to stare at big celebrities but people try to sidle up to them discreetly and take photos with their smart phones anyway. Then, they run to the other side of the club and start tweeting. Busted!
There is an abundance of fabulous food but only men eat, while the women nibble on a single carrot that was actually cut as a flower because it was a garnish. There are two bars, and waiters pass wine, champagne and sparkling water all the time, but people grab full glasses only to have a sip, and then put full glasses down on lacquered black tables, where the waiters pick them up and take away. And you thought we had a recession going on?
There is music but very few people dance: the heels are too high, the makeup might get ruined, the husbands are arthritic. When yours truly and husband dearest are dancing, there is a swarm of photographers on us, they want to capture the moment of somebody having a good time.
And then realization strikes: people are too concerned about their looks, about their hair, they cannot eat or dance with abandon because at any time their photograph might be snapped and make it to a tabloid, what with their mouth open and a piece of tuna falling out, or their face sweaty and mascara running. People are too busy posing and preening, and standing close to the big stars, staking out positions and having plastered smiles on. This takes up so much effort that nobody is having a good time.
On the way out, there is a red carpet walk again, and at the door there are fabulous party gifts: exquisite totes filled with goodies. This is a consolation prize for not having a good time at the party, you can enjoy the gifts at home, far from the scrutiny of others, far from the cameras, in your slippers and bathrobe. Let the good times roll!
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