How To Survive Your First Gala

So, I attended my first gala event on Tuesday night, as an "assistant" to my photographer friend.

Let me tell you...

I have never seen so many "Glamazons" in my life.  I felt like a hobbit (in heels).  It was glorious and depressing.

Everyone was dressed to the nines.  Again, even though I was put together and wore tights, I still felt like a hobbit (in heels).  Actually no, a hobbit in heels attending a funeral, because all black is always a winner.

At first, I ran around a bit for my friend.  Grabbing stuff from her bag, getting her drinks, feeling generally useful.  And then... she let me off into the wild... by myself...

It's safe to say I took full advantage of the open-bar (but not too much advantage), but even after a couple of glasses of wine, I still felt obscenely awkward standing around by myself.  No one wants to rub shoulders with a disgruntled grad student/assistant.  And yes, I could have befriended one of the many well-dressed men and maybe have found myself a wealthy husband, but, again, I was drowning in a crowd of glitter, cleavage and evening gowns.

I totally get that the best company you can keep is yourself but, like, there is a time and a place to stand alone talking to yourself and it is not a fancy gala.  People can sniff out your insecurities and then they avoid you like the plague.  Even the hors-d'oeuvres got tired after a while.  I can only eat so many cheese balls and consume so much chocolate fountain deliciousness.

And then I saw it...

Bored and drunk, I sauntered over to the silent auction table.  The only thing that was remotely affordable for this broad came in the form of a Rebecca Minkoff purse.  After chatting, and getting easily persuaded, by the auction monitor, I decided to give in to my materialistic desires and put down a bid.  Because, why not?  I wouldn't win anyway.

After venturing back and forth for a bit, grabbing another glass of wine and feeling sorry for myself, I decided to leave before I stumbled over someone's gown or accidentally elbowed someone in their designer breasts.  I gathered my things, said my farewells to my paparazzi pal and, of course, checked on my precious Rebecca.  No one had bid against me.  I was fucked.  Handing over the bag in exchange for my worn-out credit card, the table monitor congratulated me on my win.  Half ecstatic, half anticipating the regret I would feel with my hang-over the next day, I accepted my new swag.

A swift entrance into the world of philanthropy, sore feet and four glasses of wine later, I had barely survived my first gala.  But I did learn that one should always befriend the coat-check attendant.  By bringing him water, I garnered an all-access pass to cut the line when I needed to grab something.

There was no one to smirk at when the violinist on the bar started playing "The Final Countdown", no one to make snarky comments to when some American Idol alumni and her two male dancers belted out je-ne-sais-quois and no one to stop me when I bid on a designer purse...

But whatever, open bar and snacks.