An Ant in the Sapphire Room

Louise's 21st was in the Sapphire Room of the Metropolis Hotel. The same afternoon, after at least an hour shopping for a suitably matched gift, I eventually settled on buying her a gold plated perfume bottle, hand made (apparently) in Egypt.

There was a bar tab, estimated (by the curious) to be more than $5000, which had Boy standing around at any given moment with a full glass of some alcoholic drink in each hand (I wonder if anyone noticed his greediness) and, after it ran out, a drunken Helen making (a somewhat tipsy) me steal other people's champagne off tables with the never failing "do you know who's drink this is... because I'm sure I left mine here" approach, just before the MC - Austin Powers made his appearance to announce the speeches.

"Formal Dress" the invite (which had been addressed to me and "partner") had specified, and I had stressed out for a month after getting it, knowing that I didn't really have anything to wear. My searches to find something suitable in boutiques were in vain, and stopped shortly before my exams began. The night before her big party (so much hype!) I realised that I still didn't have anything to wear. Fortunately, being blessed with the good fortune of having two sisters the same size, I managed to put together a black ensemble of a long black skirt with side slits (mine), a glittery black top (sister), and a black overshirt (sister).

Closed black sandles with wraparound straps that I bought for a school ball four years ago were a mistake. We danced for hours. My feet began to ache, we rested a little, and drank iced water with floating orange pieces, and danced some more. I danced without shoes until I couldn't ignore the feeling of the sticky carpet under my feet anymore... putting my shoes back on, and dancing until the pain was too much to bear. I didn't want to stop, but Boy was tired (having had an exam that afternoon, and a lot less beauty sleep than he is normally subject to) and there was the distinct feeling that if I stayed up on my feet much longer, they would snap off.

We said goodbye to Louise, and I managed to hobble out the hotel, and collapse on the front step. Boy said he would bring the car up, and I took my shoes off and enjoyed the feel of the cold concrete against my feet, and the slight chill of the night breeze on my shoulders. A concerned doorman came outside, and asked me if I was okay and made general polite conversation until Boy arrived.

"Is this your ride?" He asked me.

"Yes." I replied.

"Ahh okay." He smiled and opened the passenger door for me after Boy had stopped, seeing that I got in safely, and wishing us a good night. We were very impressed.

Boy backed in to a deserted corner of a large carpark and gave me a footrub which evolved into lovemaking and resulted in us falling asleep in the back of his car. Still half asleep when he dropped me home at 6am, I hopped across the gravel littered driveway in barefeet, trying my best to ignore the sharp pain that each cold piece which made contact with my skin induced, drank two glasses of water (to scare off any waiting champagne hangovers) and collapsed gratefully into bed.

The party was undeniably more amazing than expected. Unfortunately, little was captured on my mostly unused camera. Browsing through the very few stored photos, I realise there are none of me, and I wonder what this means. It is one of those days. Boy, who had the camera, took random photos of some of my friends, but none of me. He didn't ask to have any photos taken with me. Nobody did. I wonder if this makes me insignificant and worthless, like the ant on your jam toast that you squash because you resent it for trying to steal your food. And plain, so much so that nobody who mattered would want to remember me for longer than they had to see me in real time, and the only people who do notice me are sleazy drunk boys who make self introductions and wake up the next morning without any memory of having spoken to me at all.

The feeling makes the magic of the party seem somewhat bland, and gives rise to emotions you feel when you are, for the first time, holding a rebellious crying sister who has been suspended from school in your arms, feeling her tears dripping down your shirt and noticing for the very first time, how petite she is and how soft her hair is as you try and contain your tears while she apologises to you for making you feel worthless for the last few years of your life.

And you realise that you will always be reminded that life is more than dancing in tight shoes and stealing champagne off random tables, and dealing with hypocritical friends with whom, at times, it seems like your boyfriend would much rather spend time with, or take pictures of, who will hold a grudge against you for the rest of your life (if, in fact, they are your friend for that long) because you told them the truth.

Then you cry because you don't want to care about anything, but you do. Because you think you have had enough of the negative emotions awakened by the people around you, but know that there is no remedy for this because they will always be there. And because you know that the magic had started to deteriorate at the party the moment the camera had been pulled out and photos were being taken, and instead of asking someone to take a photo with you, you waited.

previous - next; thanks, diaryland.