Glitterati

Okay… so I’m stressing out. Up until this point, I was fine and really, couldn’t care less about the event I’m attending tomorrow. Just looked at it as another one of those kinds of events that calls for me to attend on be half of work. But… I won’t really be working. I’ll be attending. And I don’t have to go… I had to RSVP for it. And it’s not just a work event… it’s

BEYONCE’s BEYOND THE RED CARPET EVENT
*fireworks sound effects and cheering crowds*

Right. And I’ll be there… looking like I’m there to clean the carpet. Or the bathroom. Why didn’t I prepare better? Because the last minute is my best friend. I bought this top at Ashley Stewart last weekend that I thought would be FIERCE for tomorrow. Yep. It’s the first kind I bought of it’s kind ever in my life. Backless. Halter. Yeaaaaahhhhh Vicky. Go girl! Mmmm hmmm…. wait. I have 40Ds hanging off my front. And they need assistance standing up. But… a backless halter bra? I dunno if they make those. “Girl… DUCT TAPE,” said the Jamaican customer waiting for the fitting room. “Tape them up real good and you’ll be fine all night…” *blink, blink* I tried so hard not to gawk at her with utter disbelief at what she was saying. Instead, I said, “Great idea, girl! I’ll try that,” as I walked to the cashier and purchased the top, along with a false sense of security that I’d have something for the gala. Then I got home and tried it and… said… NOOOO. Umma need a convertible bra. They have those right? Um… Not for 40 Ds. “We’ve discontinued that size,” the sales girl at Vicky’s said without even BATTING AN EYELASH that she just stabbed me… HARPOONED, rather… me in the heart. “Oh…” I replied defeated as she shoved a 38D into my hand and scurried me along to go try it on. After wrestling with it and the twins for 20 minutes (yes, ONE bra), I came out and said… okay… no after reading the $50 dollar price tag. It doesn’t even fit? Hell to the naw. So i bought one of those… tape it to your boobies things… not quiet duct tape, but maybe the same effect. So i tried it when I got home… and looked… horrible. Like a cow stuffed in a terra cotta red mumu. Dangit… Where did all this great esteem I’d been hoarding up go in a matter of one day? Not far… it’s there. Just hiding.

It’s one thing for me to be in jeans and a tee with a clip board in my hand helping these people backstage… hey… Jay-Z , they need you in the dressing room. Denzel, can you come and give a few words about how you feel about the radio station? Missy, smile for the camera real quick. Yeah… that’s work. It’s another thing if I have to hob knob with them. And I guess I’m just not feeling ready. Especially not at the event being thrown by the QUEEN of self-proclaimed divas herself, Ms. Bay-ounce-say. Not to mention my escort will be 3 trillion times more fabulous than I because she always is. And I’ll spend the night looking like her body guard.

I didn’t even wash my hair. I just sat here and blogged. I’m doomed.

Going to try on some duct tape.

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