Project Happily Ever After

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Recently I was invited to a book party for The Skinny, a best-selling diet book I wrote with Dr. Louis J. Aronne. (It’s the best diet book ever written. If you aspire to lose as little as half a pound, you really should consider purchasing it.) The party would be held at Saveur magazine in New York city. It was hosted by Harvey Weinstein and Mario Grauso.

When I got the invitation, I was flattered, excited, and scared out of my mind. After all, as a work-at-home freelance writer, my usual attire is a blend of pajamas, sweats and T-shirts. As an avid runner with a chronic back problem, my shoe collection consists mostly of sneakers, Birkenstocks, and Dansko clogs.

Three thoughts came to mind:

Thought #1: I need to go shopping.

Thought #2: Someone needs to teach me how to do the European cheek kiss. There will be a lot of that at this function, and I’ve never figured out exactly how I should do that. Kiss the cheek? Kiss the air? Need guidance.

Thought #3: Who are Harvey Weinstein and Mario Grauso? Must Google.

As luck would have it, I hosted book club at my home about a week before the party. One of my book club friends has a Danish mother. I figured she just might be a cheek-kissing expert. I asked, “Okay, so how exactly does one do it? I never know what to do. Mark’s Dad often comes in for a cheek kiss and I get so flustered that I often end up kissing his nose.”

She said, “It’s easy. You just lightly brush your cheek against theirs as you kiss the air. Like this.” She cheek kissed me. I said, “Oooooh,” and that was that.

Next came the clothes. I went to Ann Taylor Loft. I found a dress pretty easily. Because Ann Taylor Loft is an avid practitioner of clothing size distortion (i.e. the act of saying a dress is a size 2 when it’s really a size 8), I felt absolutely skinny while wearing it.

But when I got it home I realized I didn’t have any shoes to go with it. Back to the store I went. Thankfully a sales lady immediately approached me. I said, “I’m going to a fancy party tomorrow and I need black shoes to go with my black dress. They need to be dressy, but they also need to be comfortable.”

She found a pair of Sofft shoes for me, ones with a pretty big heel. I thought in no way shape or form could those shoes be anything but foot torture, but she convinced me to give them a try.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“They feel pretty good. And I can walk without looking like I’m wearing stilts. I’m sold.”

Then she asked, “Do you have a purse?”

I said, “Yes, of course, I have a purse. See?” I showed her the dingy brown mom purse that I always carry, the one that is big enough to absorb any number of sippy cups, magic markers, snack bags, pens, and other assorted things that no mom should be without.

“Um, are you sure you don’t want a new purse?” she said as she gave me the “you really need a new purse” look.

I said, “Okay, show me what you have.”

She did, and, of course, I fell in love with the most expensive one in the store, because, you know, that’s the kind of person I am. I’m the kind of person who frowns upon status symbols and expensive things, but when I’m standing in front of a bunch of things and I don’t know the price tags of any of them, I will automatically gravitate toward status symbols, name brands, and price tags that make commoners like me gasp and say, “A purse can cost THAT much!?”

And then I won’t be able to stop myself from pulling out my credit card.

My new Brighton purse came with its own storage case and a warranty. I’ve never had a storage case for a purse before. I was quite proud of the thing. I couldn’t wait to tell everyone I knew that I owned a purse with a storage case.

Next task: Google. When I found out that Harvey Weinstein was the co-founder of Miramax, I studied his photo. I didn’t want to accidentally ask him at the party, “And you are? And what do you do for a living?”

Still, even with my cheek-kissing practice, my new outfit and power purse, and photo studying, I was nervous. I just didn’t think I could pull off glam no matter how hard I tried. I worried I would end up looking like a Work at Home Country Mom Who Was Trying to Look Glam But Who Was Doing a Very Bad Job of It.

This nervousness intensified as my husband and I packed for New York. I looked at my dress and said, “This dress is…”

“Blue,” he said, finishing my sentence.

I said, “I thought it was black. My shoes and purse are black.”

He asked, “Do you have blue shoes?”

“Yes, but I can’t wear those. I have to wear the new black ones. I paid too much money for them. And I have to use the black purse. It’s my power purse. I can’t go to the party without it. It’s going to keep me sane. This purse is my secret glam weapon.”

He looked at me as if I were a tad short of some sort of medication. Then he said, “Do you want me to wear a blue suit or a gray one?”

Oddly, I was decisive about this problem. “Blue,” I said. “That one looks better on you.”

We arrived in New York with a few hours to spare. My husband was hungry. So we went to a local pub. I was nervous and it was Cinco de Mayo, so I ordered a margarita. Then I had another one. Then I wasn’t so nervous. In fact, I felt confident and beautiful. It’s amazing how two margaritas can do that for a woman.

Then we got back to the hotel room to get ready for the party. I tried to put on some mascara. I rarely wear makeup, so a mascara application is tricky business as it is. After two margaritas? I had it all over my eyelids.

After much eyelid cleaning, I eventually emerged from the bathroom and ask my husband, “Does my face look okay?” Because I rarely wear makeup, this question was not a part of my usual repertoire. He did not have a prepared answer and really had no idea why I was posing the question in the first place. He said, “Yes, I think so.”

He did whistle when he saw me in full glam attire, though. That made me feel good.

Later, at the party, he pointed out the one woman who was wearing jeans. That made me feel good, too. It was as if he totally understood me and knew intuitively that a jeans-wearing woman would make me feel better about the fact that my dress did not match my shoes or purse.

In return, I pointed out the lady who was wearing a hot pink hat with a hot pink wire and Styrofoam ball attached to it.

Toward the end of the evening, I was able to forget about my mismatched outfit and mascara smudged eyelids. My feet were starting to hurt and I’d run out of prepared conversation material. It was time to go.

I confidently walked over to Dr. Aronne. He’d been talking with someone or other the entire night. I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye, so I wedged myself between him and the man he was talking to, gave him a hug and a European cheek kiss, and thanked him for having me.

He said, “Alisa, I’d like you to meet Harvey.”

I turned and realized that I’d just cut in on Harvey Weinstein. I stuttered something to the effect of, “Oh, you’re the host, right?”

He said something like, “I’m the co-host,” and walked away.

I thought, “Thank God I’m not an aspiring actress.”

Then my husband and I left. He asked me, “Did you have a good time?”

I said, “Yes, I did. I don’t know why I got so worked up about this. I fit right in. I am the best cheek kisser around. I flubbed my Harvey moment, though, despite all of my research, but it was no big deal. It really wasn’t. I sort of wish I’d asked him what he did for a living. That might have been funny.”

He said, “Yes, you did fit in. You looked beautiful.”

And I knew he really meant it.

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