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.
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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.