Rosy Smith: New Years Eve

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.... that I'm gonna have to spend my single evening off school traveling to some hotel I've never been to and interview two people I've never heard of all by myself. So that's cool.

So I rushed home (I'd been out with my loveliest friend, talking through the events of last night (oh, shush your dirty minds) and changed into a beige pencil skirt and black square shirt, threw some heels and lipstick into my bag and jumped into the waiting car.

Frantically chewing on my gum like a nicotin addict who hasn't had a smoke in a week, (I swear I never had a cigarette in my life) I dug around my things to find a pen and an old fashion show invitation – I just realized I have technical difficulties opening my emails, and even worse, opening the document with my questions. No questions, no interview; no use calling my partner on a ferry, so I told my loveliest friend to get into my account and send me a picture. Bless her. So that's why I'm scribbling them down on this tiny piece of paper hoping I will be able to read them without squinting (don't squint at interviews, it makes people nervous).

My train's delayed, of course, so I miss my bus (big news). There's no cab in sight and I don't have cash on me anyways, so I stumble into the subway – any line, 'cause I got no real clue where I have to be. I get off at a nice-sounding stop and make a run for it, 'cause I'm kinda late (obviously). I confidentally walk down three blocks, stopping only to change out of my Converse (I had been having a classic "business" meets "I have to run so let me wear chucks" vibe going on since leaving home) and into my heels within the safety of a bus stop, like any real lady would. Then I fall back into my confident pace, suddenly realizing how small these shoes actually are. My left foot feels as if I was wearing Chinese foot binders. That's how small.

But my legs look nice, a quick glance into a shop window shows. Wait, is that the right direction? It feels so weird. Like, wasn't that restaurant on the other side of the road on the map? I stop dead in my tracks, convinced that I've been wrong for at least a mile and have to run all the way back and be not only hopelessly late and worse, out of breath. Cue me risking my life to cross the street and ask random strangers for directions.

Turns out, I've been right all along and needlessly lost five minutes of precious slow walking time. However, if I don't get stuck in the sidewalk, I could make it.

Here I am; no one else is yet, though. It seems to be a hobby of mine, to uselessly stand in front of things like I have something to sell.

I just love to get press material. It sounds so important (even though it's just two pieces of paper telling me where I am right now. Which I guess is worth something). Oh, and free drinks are very lovable too. I'll take those. The PR girls look like they're still in school with me. Does that mean I am grown-up or that they are not?

There's only curry flavored popcorn for food, sadly, but oh well, it is a fashion event after all. At least there are tables and chairs and more popcorn (and, for some incomprehendable reason, nuts) in the goodie bag. Why am I here again? Oh, yeah, that interview. I need to look up the girls I have to talk to or I won't recognize them, I fear. I have an outstanding face memory. Trying to subtly glance around and stare at the other guests to find a match to my google search results. Thank God, they are speakers tonight.

It's not not interesting. A lot of marketing phrases, but at least that way they won't take away my questions for later, which go more like "what's your fave spot in the city" than "define your target group, please". Let's pray my phone lasts long enough to actually record the conversation. Now I'm yawning, which is probably very rude, but I can't help it. That's what terms like "target group" do to me.

Another journalist is asking mean questions (by mean I mean specific and critical). Let the fun begin. My turn: My teacher spots me hovering around my assigned partners, pretending to have a reason to stand there other than interrupting their conversation. Which I don't. So she kinda pushes me towards them (metaphorically speaking, or I would've tripped over my heels). Just as I want to blurt out my little "Hi, I need to do the interview for the website, please" phrase, some TV guy slides by and commences to chat them up - how rude! I glare at him and one of the girls notices (I'm such a cool, laid back professional) and very kindly ignores him in favor of me. Take that, CNN (kidding. He didn't look important enough for CNN).

"Soooo, I hope this works", I say as I press record. My voice on tape sounds like I'm a kindergardener. But at least one can hear everything, if annoyingly so. I got 12 minutes, then that impertinent TV guy came by and I wrapped it up (that's how they say it. Is that how they say it?). I'd love to have a business card right now. I stick around for another ten minutes, decide I don't have to try and talk to important people (I mean, without a business card, what's the use) 'cause I'm here to do a job, which I finished (I'm sorry but I have to stress this 'cause I like the sound of it), so I click clack my way out and back to the station. My feet hurt like hell at this point but I've learned to accept it. Still, I change back into my Converse on the subway (classy), just in time for a loud crowd of twenty somethings to enter the wagon and sit with me. I've muttered a bad word upon the sight of them, for which I feel bad now because they were truly polite, even if a littly drunk and silly. Do I belong to their group, they ask. I silently shake my head. One of them says something slightly funny so I slily smiled. Do I want to be part of the group now, they ask. No, I said, but granted them an approving expression to show my goodwill. After you, they say as we have to get out.

And here I am, sitting by the tracks and stuffing my face with a curry dish. Let me just state how much I like the lady who sold me that for a) letting me pay by credit card (remember the lack of cash) and b) reminding me thrice to hold the box steady so it won't flood. I think that shows how much she cares for me. And c), she gave me food. Anyways, satisfied stomach, resting feet, successful interview and a free Harper's Bazaar - I actually had a pretty good night.

Love,

Rosy Smith

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