Today I did not go to a VIP lounge. Now, I could describe every single other day of my life in exactly the same way, so why does it matter? Because I could have. We tried. We really did.
My rich friend scanned her mother’s card four or five times, rang the doorbell, and even tried forcing the door. Nope. The ugly orange-ish marble counter inside remained resolutely unmanned. Or womanned. No one came to rescue us from our embarrassingly upscale blunder. Meanwhile, the Korean couple at the brioche place behind us kept throwing covert glances our way, us in our cool trench coats and ankle boots, and the obviously touristy American looked at us with a kind of awe and affected dislike. Or maybe that was just her face.
I wanted so desperately to get in, for once, to feel rich, to sit and bask in the luxury of my own wealth…or something. A VIP lounge at a designer mall is nothing to shake a stick at, I’ll wager. But now I may never know, since it was closed. Or reserved. I bet some Kdrama man wannabe had it totally reserved so he could fill it full of sickening flowers and propose gorgeously to his carefully surprised girlfriend. Ugh.
But dammit! I was wearing my new, cool black coat that was slimming! Dammit.