I'm in heels. I'm sweating. I walk up the stairs in the little black dress that was sitting in my closet for over a year with the tag still on - until now. All this time, it got passed over for conservative chic. But not tonight. Tonight I'm going all out and I don't want to fail at it.
I walk up stairs, ready to enter another world, a world transformed from the beautiful to the divine. My eyes meet a silver-haired woman dressed in black greeter wear at a tiny desk on the stairs.
"Press," I said, wearing the badge around my neck.
It's my get-into-all-the-cool-places-for-free-card. Perhaps places where I don't want to be, as well.
The woman gives my a shiny black press packet and cuffs my right wrist with a colorful band. This is the part of my job that people envy. This is part of my job that makes me tense. The stairs were just the beginning. Stairs can take you up, but heels, if you can't maneuver them, can take you down.
I can already feel my temples growing warm. I sweat when I get excited. I sweat when I get nervous. I sweat when I have a pulse. Glad it's fall.
But it's fall in Florida, so that doesn't mean much.
Here, there's no true winter and barely a fall. The seasons are are "hot," "hotter" and, if you're lucky, about three weeks of mild. The cold is over before it really begins. The air takes a hint of fall, but not enough to count for anything. Blame it on global warming, or that gas guzzler you drive.
I walk briefly through a hallway and into the courtyard, where life is taking a break to party. Wall-to-wall people carpet the grounds. Champagne is pouring in the distance. There are ice sculptures against real marble ones. I find it ironic that such time and effort was put into a sculpture that will melt in five hours or less. I look to the left and a symphony quartet is playing. Tables are filled with hors d'oeuvres. My stomach is filled with butterflies. I can't eat. I'm here for a reason. I've got a job to do.
Watch, report and write.
I take a step. Then another. And another. Hope to kill time by walking. Only two minutes go by. What to do while I wait? Look confident and sweat free, hoping I don't trip in these heels.
I take a deep breath and imagine looking pleasant. Calm. You are what you believe. Glad I wore the black dress. I feel young and pretty. Pretty and beautiful. Beautiful and gorgeous. Even my hair, newly trimmed, is playing nice. For a moment, all feels right with the world. But I wonder how long it will last. I feel swallowed by the crowd coming to and fro, surrounding me, enveloping me, passing me by like busy bees.
Three minutes go by. I have 20 more to kill before speeches and fireworks and an evening of symphonic music and grabbing random people for quotes. This is the job that I do.
It can be hectic sometimes. At times, not so pretty. I'll spare you the not-so-pretty details.
I hear the cling of glasses plump with champagne, violin bows hitting strings in jazzy vibrations and the chatter of the crowd. There's nothing like an art-filled social event in West Florida - an inaugural event - to bring people out in droves before the real tourist season starts. Here they are: The rich. The artsy. The old. The know-it-alls. The curious. The sophisticated. The beautiful. The proud. The seen and be seens. And me. Girl next door reporter in the black dress.
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