Monday was my 30th birthday, and Sunday night I got home from my first trip to Vegas. Wow. 30. Time to break out the full-coverage panties and elaborate facial creams, and investigating how I can get my insurance to pay for an in-home elevator.
I’d like to share a Vegas story with you:
As I mentioned in my last post, I had a GREAT group of friends who flew out to celebrate with me, and in this group of great people happened to be a selection of gorgeous women. On the night I’mwriting about, three of these hotties came out with me for a night on the town, and it just so happened that they were all tall, thin, and had their boobies out. I have lots of variously sized and shaped friends, but by chance it was the tall and skinny brigade who made it out that night. We spent the trip dressed to the nines, drinking complicated drinks, and batting our eyelashes at anyone who was willing to smile at us. Or leer. We weren’t picky.
That’s what happens as you get older—you start grasping at any kind of superficial validation that you are still sexually desirable to the universe at large. Or maybe that’s justme. Either way, I try to do my part by telling women they look beautiful, that I like their dress, that I’m jealousthat their hair is so long and shiny. Anything I notice, really, because I want everyone to feel that glow of being admired. And because I believe that everybody except for Casey Anthony has something about them that is exceptional and beautiful.
I have learned this after spending a decade of my life being a judgmental, superficial bitch about other women. I repent for my formerly evil ways. I will spend the next decades of my life trying to be kind to women to make up for my previous wrongdoing, because guess what? It’s kind of hard to live up to the standards we’re given. I try, don’tget me wrong, but it’s hard.
Which is why this story is so disgusting. And why I’m now swimming in puddles of my own shame for doing nothing about it. And why I’m telling you—so that maybe, if this happens in front of you—you’ll beprepared and thoughtful enough to do the right thing. The thing I didn’t do, because I was too taken aback and unprepared to respond.
We were approached and offered a free “limo” ride to Club Vanity at the Hard Rock hotel. Club Vanity was a frequent haunt of the most recent Real World cast, so it sounded like a good time. Or, at the very least,a debauched time. The limo ended up being a bus with machine guns painted on the sides, but it was still free, andI’d been drinking high-end Russian vodka and wasn’t in a position to quibble over details. Also, it felt too late to back out because we were dressed, and I say this with love, like complete tramps.
Part of my third-life crisis involves wearing bandage dresses and hoiking my breasts up underneath my chin and getting European-style bangs. No judging.
While we were waiting by the door of the club, waiting to be escorted in, there was a heated discussion in undertones between the promoters and the bouncers for the club. One of my girlfriends asked, “is there a problem?” We thought perhaps they were angry that we had a man in our group (my darling husband, who offered to chaperone and hold purses and otherwise be a saint for the night).
The bouncer stared at us, very obviously, from top to bottom and said “Oh no, you guys aren’t the problem. You’re the solution.” He then gestured to the two women behind us in line. They were larger women, with fabulous dresses and really cute hairstyles, but they happened to be larger than a size 6.
He then leaned over to the promoter and said, “who broughtthe BIG girls?” in a very accusatory tone.
My friends and I stared at one another in horror as the club staff started to physically separate the larger women from the line and explain that they couldn’t come in because they weren’t on the “guest list.” The guest list that did not, technically,exist. The 5’4, plenty-large-himself bouncer was taking issue with the fact that two women had gotten dressed up and excited to go dancing, but weren’t the exact right height and weight dimensions to be allowed to have a good time. But the men in line were allowed to be whatever dimensions they wished without judgment or having to tolerate bullshit.
The two women knew exactly what was happening, and their hurt was palpable and painted all over their faces. It was heartbreaking.
While we gaped, open-mouthed, we were chivvied into the club, handed free shots and drink tickets, and placed near the stage of women in underpants, gyrating on poles and having unnaturally toned abs. We stayed where we were put. We didn’t take a stand. We didn’t leave. We had a good time, and not once did one of us go tower over the bouncer and tell him to go fuck himself, as we should have done.
So this has to serve as my belated, inadequate middle finger to that jerk who thought it was okay to judge the bodies of women who were just trying to have fun on a Saturday night in a city that prides itself on providing fun Saturday nights to anyone who shows up willing to get rowdy.
This also has to serve as my apology to the two women who had their night ruined. I’m sosorry. I’m sorry I didn’t sayanything. I’m sorry I patronized that establishment after witnessing their show of assholery, and I’m really jealous that your hair was so long and shiny. You deserve better because you are beautiful, and because you’re HUMANBEINGS.
If you visit Vegas, I encourage you to avoid the Hard Rock and especially Club Vanity. They take their pretentious name very seriously, they only apply their standards to women, and there’s nowhere to sit down and take off the Godawful heels that you have to wear in order to be deemed acceptable by their titchy little bouncer.