A Scottsdale inspired piece written from the perspective of girls I party with, but don’t know much else about.  Scottsdale Fact: the girls who play here are always beautiful, and usually bitchy. 

My mind is racing, but my body is gliding.  It’s important to me to look thin.  I just need to stand up straight, take my time, cross the floor, and then I can breathe just as soon as I round the corner into the ladies room.  I look good in this top.  No, I look great!  I have to.  I mean I haven’t eaten in four days.  The handful of peanuts and the bag of donuts definitely don’t count because I puked them up.  I should chew another piece of gum; this stuff is so delicious.  I think I’m hungry.  I know for certain that I’m drunk.  Please don’t trip.  Although I am sick of these damn tasteless vodka sodas, I’d hate to be wearing it.  Eeeek!  Those guys are looking at me!  They have girls with them, yet they’re checking me out.  I knew that medium was a wise choice.  It’s snug, but it shows me off.  Guys like that.  Right?

“Ahhh,” I exhale aloud as I enter the dimly lit ladies room.  I cannot believe how exhausting it is to suck in all night.  On a more positive note, I can’t believe how well I’m doing it considering how much I’ve been drinking.  I laugh with my reflection for a moment.  We look thin and happy.  This makes us smile.

The bathroom door swings open interrupting my retreat.  In walks an amazingly thin blonde, and out goes my ever-wavering confidence.  We survey one another and share half-hearted smiles.  I pretend to rifle through my clutch, when really, all my focus has shifted to her.  I peek at her as she studies her reflection with familiar scrutiny.  Her floral romper lays flat on her skin, yet she doesn’t look satisfied.  I could never pull off that pattern.  I turn my drunken haze to my own reflection.  It appears tired, disappointed, and enormous.  To me, she looks like Christmas in June, sunny and amazing.  Even I wouldn’t pick me.   Why must I always be the fattest woman in the room?

“Excuse me, my soap is all out.  Ugh don’t you just hate that?” she glances at me, careful not to drip water on my clutch as her frail arm nears the dispenser, and smiles.

Her bones are beckoning me to push them like buttons, “Oh, no problem.  Yah, that’s always so gross.   I mean what if someone needed to wash up to eat or something,” I say relaxing more with each syllable.

“Eeew yah, or what if someone was sick or something,” she says with a curled up nose as she sticks her index finger down her throat and makes a gagging noise followed by a giggle.  “I mean, it just happens sometimes, ya know?” she says with a matter of fact type of tone as she checks her smile in the mirror.

“Absolutely!” I say with newfound esteem, suddenly feeling proud of my bare belly and plunging neckline.  Searching for my lip-gloss I imagine our reflections high-fiving and smile.  I suddenly feel so at ease.  “I am so wasted right now.   If I don’t get out of here soon, one of these toilets will for sure be my new friend.  I mean I haven’t eaten in days, so I’m just getting so smashed!  Well, I’m sure you understand,” I say with a greater emphasis on you than I had intended.

I am expecting her laughter to chime in, or for her to agree in some way, but she is silent.  All I can hear is the bars music pounding on the door, as if it were pleading for her return.  I lift my face to meet her heavy stare.  Her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down.  She grins, turning her attention to herself as she applies lip plumper.

“I hear they have a bacon avocado cheeseburger that’s just ridiculous!”  She tilts her head and poses in the mirror, “Mmm but I think I’m craving the nacho platter.  I’m not really that hungry, but my boyfriend enjoys treating me to dinner, so…maybe I’ll just get both, and kind of nibble.  Although, I definitely want to save room for their brownie dessert!  Have you had it?” she asks without making eye contact and proceeds without waiting for a response.  “And I think I’m done drinking beer for the night, I look like I’m pregnant!” she laughs and pats her remarkably flat stomach, her eyes never leaving her own reflection.

I feel like I’m under a spell.  I can’t stop staring at her reflection.  Every part of her body is taunting me.  She unexpectedly turns for the door, yet my eyes remain fixated where her reflection had been effectively torturing me.  With one swift pull of the handle, the music swallows me.   I turn to watch her go, when she suddenly stops and gracefully twirls to face me.

“Cute top,” she spoke the way your superficially sweet Barbie doll would and looked me square in the eyes.  “I almost bought it myself, but it was too loose around my ribs.  Oh and in my arms.  I was kind of down about it, but now I see that it must have been made for a bigger body type.”

She smirked like she was waiting for me to thank her, adjusted her romper and looked through me as if I were her personal mirror, and then sashayed away to eat a cheeseburger.

Porcelain Prisoner

My latest H&M purchase was quite the hit, up until now. It’s no longer form fitting and sexy like Katrina had sworn in the dressing room this afternoon.

“Oh, yes! This is it! Everyone will either want to be you, or be with you,” she marveled with suspicious delight.

My envy-inspiring outfit now feels loose and damp, The music I had been swaying to earlier now seems to be invading my veins and is making my heart dizzy with panic; and I realize that I’m passed out on sticky porcelain with my leggings resting between my Madden wedges and cold, tainted tile. It’s as if my eyelids have been pinned to my flushed cheeks and my lips have been sewn shut.

“Miss? Hey, girl? I work here. Can you hear me?” beckons an unfamiliar male voice.

I yearn to jump up, pardon this embarrassing encounter, run for the exit and never return; but I can’t move.

“Oh my gosh! Is she OK? Are you her friend?” a shrill voiced girl asks.

“No. I don’t know her. Wow. How humiliating!” she proclaims in such a tone as if being besties with the bathroom attendant would be less degrading.

I can hear sighs and snickers alike. It sounds like every single stall is discussing pitiful me. How did I end up here? Where the hell is Katrina? I can feel the liquor poisoning my stomach. I can smell it on my skin. How could I be such a fool? If my eyes could open they would weep.

Fingertips graze my forehead, tuck brunette strands behind my ear and rest on the back of my neck. “You’re going to be all right. The fire station is on their way. They will make you safe. Don’t worry, girl,” soothes the same mysterious male voice.

If I could look this stranger in the eyes and thank him, I know that I wouldn’t. Rather, I’d plead for him to pull my leggings up, cover my face and lay me in my bed. Courage and confidence have completely escaped me.

Heavy footsteps approach me like a stampede. Gloved fingertips pull my face away from the stranger’s cradle and feel for a heartbeat. I want to tell him that the search is useless, that my heart is broken. The scent of latex is strong. My eyelids are pushed up and open to reveal probing stares and bright lights. Their medical jargon overwhelms me. With little delay, I’m carefully hoisted up off my throne of despair and laid upon a stretcher of shame. In any other instance I might have felt like a celebrity with the way the uniformed brigade parted the masses of club goers. However, I knew there wasn’t a shiny, tinted Tahoe awaiting me. There’s absolutely nothing glamorous about an ambulance.

As we wheel past the curious crowds I clench my eyes as tightly as I can and hum a lullaby in my head. I pray for their unkind words and harsh laughter to flutter away. I wonder if Katrina was witnessing my misery. Would she run to my side or disappear onto the dance floor and dismiss our friendship? I could hear her voice echoing in my mind as my rescuers lifted me into my chariot….everyone will either want to be you, or be with you. Even I had to laugh at this. I went from being the bell of the ball to the bathroom blunder in a matter of empty friendships and countless cocktails.