I’ve always been tall. Always loomed above my 5 ‘ 3”-ish counterparts. Then again, I’ve never spent any time around the preternaturally tall species known as models. Until this week.
On a whim, I accepted a one night gig as a hostess at a new restaurant opening in the Meatpacking district (oo la la). My responsibilities? Smile and manage the improvised coat room as guests arrived.
When I showed up for instructions – slightly harried after rushing down from work – I soon realized I was missing what every other girl in the room was glowingly parading. A pair of, ahem, breasts. Besides sporting the prerequisite pouty lips, kohl-lined eyes and rail thin bodies, the waitresses were exhibiting far more plentiful bosoms. Bushwick never felt so far away. Or more flat-chested.
I fluffed up my hair (if only to make up for the lack of “fluffage” elsewhere), tugged at my skirt, and took up residence behind the receptionist table at the door. That’s when all the beautiful, tall people started to arrive. Emphasis on tall.
With New York Fashion Week underway, the stylish set from G-Star had descended upon the restaurant for a post-show dinner. Cameras flashed, “OMG! How are you?’s echoed throughout, and denim-heavy looks dominated (G-Star Raw is primarily a denim line).
I watched all of this from my “servants’ quarters” – passing comments, and judgment, with my fellow hostess, another beautiful, albeit busty, Greek girl.
“I wonder who he’s with?” we wondered.
“Who’s that?” I asked, realizing I needed to brush up on my D-list celebrities.
Then I saw Liv Tyler. From my spot near the front door, I watched her walk from the “red carpet” (more like cement walkway), past the front desk into the crowd.
And here’s my confession: I have never been a LOTR nerd (though I now write the acronym in this post), but in that moment when Liv Tyler appeared, I positively felt like a hobbit. And not of the dreamy, Elijah-Wood variety. The glamour of other leggy, denim-clad women in their 30s paled next to the elfin princess herself (so much for not geeking out).
She glowed, she serenely smiled. She chatted and worked that room like a pro. I took mental notes. And then staggered home to sleep before heading to my day job.
When the manager asked me if I wanted to host again, I said yes. Party #2, hosted by Fuse, the cable music channel, featured a similar crowd. Same chesty cocktail girls. Same bevy of leggy models. Same boozy men who take full advantage of the open bar.
This time, however, our receptionist corner doubled as a DJ booth. The night progressed in somewhat chaotic fashion. The ceiling sprouted a leak. Crystal crunched underfoot after several champagne glasses fell. I sneaked a bite of a hors d'œuvre after standing on my feet for 5 hours. In heels, of course.
All the while the party grew. As I swayed next to the DJ, outright danced, and mopped up the water from the continual ceiling drip, I practiced what I’d learned from the night before and smiled serenely. Liv style.
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