Vintage black-tie image from Gentlemansgazette.com. Here is the link. It happened three nights ago, Wednesday, May 15 at a famous 14K gold hotel in New York City.
I will not wield a poison pen (or tap poison keystrokes) to write this, though I did feel hurt and vengeful in the moment.
I had received a media invite (an email, typical these days) to attend a black-tie charity dinner for a women's/family cause. I mulled it over. I don't have a black-tie wardrobe, or a shoe and handbag closet to pluck from.
The cause was important. I wasn't sure how I got on the invite chain, but I thought it might be related to a recent event I attended and wrote about. I RSVP'd yes.
I got my hair blown out. I asked Debbie to spray it hard so it would hold, especially on that damp day. I don't have an evening gown, but thought that would be okay, that the long list of media outlets I had seen on the invite would not all present in black-tie. I wore a pretty maxi dress, my very good vintage Kenneth Jay Lane earrings--the ones I'm wearing in my blog profile photo--and a cocktail ring, aquamarine set in gold prongs, from an antique shop on the coast of Maine. (I often wonder who owned it, and when. Did her husband present it? It makes a statement.) I booked a spot in a parking garage using SpotHero, and drove with my wipers on through congested traffic. I had a new Lilly Pulitzer notepad in my bag.
I was turned away.
Alice, go with her, the person in charge said loudly. "Her" was the young woman checking media names at the door. She had already combed and recombed the list and couldn't find me, then walked me over to see the woman in charge, who was standing among people in evening wear. Photos were being taken.
Did I mention that I had already met that person once, at a chic Soho shop event pre-Covid? As I recall, she held the reins pretty tight that time, too.
Was I an interloper, or a person who had been invited?
Next thing I knew, a man in black tie with eyeglasses appeared, and like a bad scene from "The Devil Wears Prada," he ushered me to the elevator, pushed the glowing button and waited to watch me descend, as though I would put up a fight or make a scene.
I have the media invite, I said, showing him my iPhone.
I'm sorry, we can't accommodate you.
That's ridiculous.
We sent out an email last night to let people know who made the list.
Well, I didn't get an email. And did you send one out to people who didn't make the list, too? That would be important. I drove all the way in from Montclair New Jersey.
I'm sorry we can't accommodate you.
That's too bad. It sounds like a good cause.
They all are.
This is outrageous. And as the doors closed, Please take me off your list.
Rejected. Ejected. Back to the coat check.
You're leaving? said the handsome black attendant. He and his co-worker, a white woman, had been the only two friendly people I'd met. Isn't it often that way? They had made me feel welcome.
Yeah.
He handed me my cardigan sweater and umbrella.
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I thought, and maybe still do, they were not letting me in because of my dress, shoes, blowout (even with my hairspray helmet!), weight or age. They could see all that but they could not see my carefully acquired toolbox of words, the way my pen glides and flows, taking notes in my own shorthand, the details I drink in and capture, the colorful story I can tell and make come alive. They could not see my gift for connecting with people from many walks of life.
It wasn't until I checked on my cell phone later that I did indeed find an email, which had been sent out at about midnight the night before, saying I was not now on the list to attend.
So Tuxedo had not been lying about that.
So the email had gone out before they had seen me, before my dress and shoes had not been enough. Before I appeared with some frown lines, no Botox. Before they saw me but did not see my brain and heart.
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It still felt bad. I had prepaid for parking (until 11 p.m.!), so I wandered around alone in my maxi dress with my Totes umbrella, up and down 57th Street. Past Bergdorf's, closed for the evening but its stylish windows (featuring a Marc Jacobs jeweled dress) always open. By the now shuttered restaurant, Mangia, that we editors used to love, past Carnegie Hall, where Dan took me to see Judy Collins when we were expecting Figgy. Then 224 West 57th Street, the old Hearst building, the gilded birdcage that housed Cosmopolitan. The Great American Health Bar, a holdout for carrot cake and soup, opened decades ago. An Italian restaurant. The Brooklyn Diner.
As a I walked west, the tall towers ahead were half wrapped in mist. Gauzy skirts.
It's still my city, I thought. Still the city I love, and no one can take that away from me.
I walked to Nordstrom, pot of gold at the end of my path, conveniently open til 9 p.m. with its convenient Prada Beauty alcove on the first floor that would take me in with open arms, not turn me away. I had read about Prada lipstick in WWD. (The gift guide drew me in with "We’re partial to the B105 shade for its modern take on the ’90s-inspired brown lipstick look.")
I wanted to try it, but it's hard to choose a lip or cheek color online. Here was my chance to get a hands-on consultation. Ivan came through. He's right, the Prada Balm in the brand's signature mint green is cushiony and soft, addictive on its own or under the lipstick. (It does not go on green.) And he found a top color for me. Tonka. I love it. It brings out my eyes. And it's refillable so I don't have to add to the beauty landfill quite so much.
I then had a ridiculously overpriced yet somehow skimpy corned beef reuben on rye in a diner, for dinner, served with a tiny pleated paper cup of very good coleslaw and a rubbery pickle spear. No fries, but I didn't want the side salad on the plate. I stared down the cheesecakes and chocolate cakes taking star turns in a lit carousel by the entrance. I did succumb later to a crumb cake square from a deli. Then I headed back home, the lights of my glittery city in the rearview mirror.
At least, I thought, I turned a lost opportunity into a beauty win. And I do feel good about that. Now I just have to practice enough self-care to consistently build in time for makeup, because I look and feel better, younger and more confident when I wear it. The Tonka lipstick, yes.
P.S. When Dan heard what happened, he was upset. He told me I should call the people the next morning and complain. I know Dan, and I know he likes to stand up for me. I appreciate his loyalty. It touched me when I was fired from a magazine as a young writer. When the editor's name came up in conversation for a while, he would say Grrrrr, like a dog about to bite. But I can stand up for myself. For that reason, I won't tell him any details, like the name of the people or the charitable cause.
P.P.S. Monday, 12:45 p.m. I just had my weekly telehealth therapy appointment with my wise therapist. It may have been brought to my attention by the end that: a. They had a strict limit on people; b. I hadn't checked my email to look for one from them before driving into the city; c. They have professional skills, but maybe kindness is not top of mind; and d. I internalized what happened and allowed myself to feel bad about it. Yes.
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