Why I’m Not Really a VIP


On a whirlwind trip to Miami the other day, I had quite the humbling experience.

I was at a fashion show in the courtyard of the fancy Setai hotel, and a promoter escorted me and my friend beyond the velvet rope and into a boxed area. But the snooty young woman who was serving that area wasn’t having it. She saw us as a hideous intrusion and promptly scooted us away from one of the two tables there, making sure we weren’t sitting anywhere near the people already seated at it.

As we sat, cramped, in banquette space between the two tables, we wondered why we were so unworthy. “I’m taking care of VIPs,” she snarled, as if spitting tacks into my skull. Ouch! What a harrowing thing to say with someone with a supermodel-thin ego like myself!

I was afraid that line would reverberate through my noggin through eternity (“I’m taking care of VIPs!” “You’re not a VIP!”), but admirably enough I quickly let go of it because, after all:

(a) I realized that by VIPs she meant tacky, shiny people who were willing to fork over their credit cards for bottle service

And (b) She eventually apologized.

And so, whether I’m a VIP or not, at least I’ll never find myself paying for anything.