Manic the V.I.P.

Most people will experience a V.I.P. moment at one time or another, whether it's the old "I'm with the band" line, or "I'm on the Free List", or somehow you've scored a backstage pass cos your mate is working at the Big Day Out. Everyone gets their 15 minutes of 5-star treatment by association, not including those people who are actually famous of course.

For me, V.I.P. is a relatively new experience. I'm not a shmoozer, I'm not a social butterfly and I'm not really, really, ridiculously, good looking either. I'm the shmo waiting in the line and complaining about the door price. So it comes as a shock to my unimportant little self that suddenly I'm V.I.P.ing. My boyfriend used to be a DJ back before we met, by the time we got together he had given up all his fame and fortune for a day-job. Hey I told you, I'm no shmoozer.

Recently however he has been doing some friends some favours and playing a few shows, and not just any shows...fashion shows. The most pretentious, intimidating kinds of gigs you could do. As a woman, even more so. The air is so thick with bitchiness you could cut through it with your $3000 stilettos. I personally think high heel wearing is akin to foot binding, so I don't go there. But I guess most fashion is all slutty torture really anyway, but I'm rambling.

I normally would never bother going to a fashion show that requires any kind of exchange of money, after all I'm surfing the poverty line until I'm fully university educated. Cowabunga.
So you can guess how this story will go; classic fish out of water situation. Normal girl's boyfriend suddenly mixes with the in-crowd and normal girl gets dragged a long without much warning. Oops, I didn't have time to wax my eyebrows and spray tan myself to within an inch of my Caucasian...ness.

So I showed up last night to a gig at an expensive Port Melbourne venue, with plush red wall-paper and a bathroom decked out with gold swans as bathroom spouts. I nervously walked past the queue and told the bouncer I was on the list, secretly not really believing I was. After I found my way down the long staircase, I was faced with a crowded room of people all head to toe in designer wear and all, well, Asian. When you just want to slink in quietly and hope nobody notices your crappy outfit it doesn't help being the only whitey, a size 12 and a blond. Among the swarm of sleek, beautiful shiny-haired petite girls I felt both fat and poor. My entire outfit equated to the average ladies' left shoe.

After standing awkwardly got boring I slunk over to the bar and ordered an orange juice, the man handed me the usual cup of ice, tinted with juice and I stood there blankly, my wallet in hand. He didn't say anything. Was this the sort of place where you're just supposed to know the prices? Or even worse the kind of place where you pay what you feel? No that doesn't make sense, and he'd walked away by now. I thought I'd stand there a bit longer, really casual, just in case he did come back and scream "$100!" in my face or something. After a few more long seconds I backed away slowly, clutching my drink close. Haha! Free drink! Of course, it wasn't until a few more seconds later that I realised there was a tab. There was food going around too, fruit and cheese on silver platters, but I was too edgy to eat. The fashion show itself was very entertaining, especially seeing my boyfriend in clothes he could never afford. I even got to hang out backstage and sip champagne. "Let's get another 4 bottles over here!" yelled the designer with a wave of his long, suited arm. It smelled like a moshpit back there, and bones were protruding from bronzed bodies everywhere. Ahh the V.I.P life sure was something, but it was nice to get home to my Ikea pillows and Weetbix.