August 8, 2010

Rockettes, Broadway Songs and Invisibility Cloaks

After taking a three-hour bus ride that included about 4,763 unpredictable lurches, bumps, drops and turns, and then a 15 minute cab ride that was more of the same, I arrived at the New York Hilton for BlogHer on Thursday feeling nauseated to the extreme and with a migraine that was threatening to take my right eye hostage indefinitely. My expectations about what my arrival would be like were perhaps, I'll admit, a bit unrealistic.

I expected that there would be a welcoming committee, who might even break out into song like, "Welcome Black Belt Mama, we see you're looking green. . . but now that you are here with us, we just can't help but beam. . . " (2400 awesome blogger ladies all bat their lashes, grin ear to ear, and start throwing up kicks, Rockette style).

It wasn't at all like that.

It was more like this: get into an extremely long check-in line with Mr. BBM who continues to encourage me to be all social and go start meeting people when all I want to do is hide, and/or yell out that I need someone to come hold me. For a 24 hour period, Mr. BBM and I completely traded personalities. He became the social butterfly, while I wished that I had packed an invisibility cloak instead of 10 pairs of shoes.

Despite seeing a familiar face in the lobby and even exchanging a few words and a hug, this inner voice was screaming at me, "Don't be a leech! Don't attach yourself to the first familiar face you see. No one wants you around. Go hide in your room."

So I did for a little while and then I dragged Mr. BBM along with me to the hotel bar so we could grab a soda and a free popsicle. I figured that people would approach us and introduce themselves. I thought I'd be able to say, "Hey aren't you so and so?" and instant connections would be made, but that didn't happen either. It was intimidating and awkward and the more people who showed up, the more socially broken I became.

I began rationalizing. "You know, I really paid for the sessions, not the parties. If I have no night life BlogHer experiences, I'll be fine."

Happily back in my comfort zone thanks to that line of thinking, Mr. BBM and I went out to dinner at this great little italian place called Il Gattopardo. I had lasagna with these amazing little meatballs in it. We shared a bottle of wine that was pure perfection. We even tried this melt-in-your-mouth lemon and limoncello semifreddo for dessert. Neither of us had any idea exactly what we had ordered, but I assured Mr. BBM that Giada said those words regularly and it was going to be good. I was right. Thank you Giada.

We walked back to the hotel and it was the first night of parties. Despite not having RSVP'd, the party opened up and I went in while Mr. BBM went up to the room. Walking into that ballroom alone was pretty nerve-wracking. I wandered around the room looking for a familiar face. Some turned away from their discussion groups for a second and glanced at me, but all of them turned back to their conversations. My one familiar face had to leave, and I mentally smacked myself around for being so shy when that is totally not my nature. It's very intimidating to try to walk up to a group of people who are already deep in discussion and introduce yourself though. What if they simply don't want to talk to you?

So I continued to wander by myself for a while. Then I found someone who looked as scared and intimidated as I felt and we talked for a bit. She introduced me to one of her friends and then before I knew it, they were gone and I was alone again.

I made a mental deal with myself. "You have to drink one drink and then you can go be sad and pathetic in your room." I walked to the bar with purpose, ordered a rum and diet coke and rationalized that I could absolutely chug that sucker if I got really uncomfortable. I ordered my drink and then realized that Mr. BBM had pulled all the cash out of my wallet earlier in the day. I felt around in my purse for a tip and the bartender said, "No, no, no tip is necessary. I just need your ticket."

I showed him my name badge and he said, "No, I need your drink ticket."

"Oh, I don't have one," I told him. I considered slamming that drink down as fast as possible, sorority style, and running, now hot from embarrassment and totally overwhelmed with not-fitting-in-at-all-ness. But I knew that if he chased me, he'd catch me. Just three weeks post surgery, I still couldn't alternate stairs. Who was I kidding?

The bartender gestured to a cash register a few feet away and told me to go buy one. I told the cashier I needed one drink ticket and handed her my credit card. "Only cash," she said. "My God," I thought, "what else can go wrong? Maybe someone will come up and kick me in the knee now too."

"Well, then I'm going to have to go to my room first," I said, knowing full well, I was NOT going to be coming back down for that drink. I laughed a nervous laugh and lied to the bartender that I would be back and walked out of that ballroom with my head held high. On my walk out the door, I rationalized that it wasn't really safe to come back and drink a beverage I had left unattended for any period of time. This wasn't about embarrassment; it was about responsibility to myself and my own personal safety. Yeah, that's it!

When I walked into the hotel room a few minutes later, Mr. BBM was shocked to see me. I relayed my experience, despite the fact that he had already read it all over my face, and he assured me that Friday would be better (insert foreshadowing here). I nodded and said nothing because I was already on the verge of tears. I curled up in bed, and came to the conclusion that I really would have been better off if I had packed that invisibility cloak.

Day two had to get better. . .

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