Do I Need a Make-over?


How were your weekends? Good, I hope. I'll give you the dish on mine.

Friday night, I went to a swank dinner party being hosted by some middle-aged Middle Eastern dude whom I'd never met before, as the guest of my new favorite person, a lady friend who happens to be incredibly, effortlessly sexy. She looks a bit like Shelly Duval, only prettier; is as thin as the stem of a lily, as pale as the flower itself, with a long tether of red hair that she wears pulled back at the nape.

When my darling Duval and I walked into the enormous apartment--with its floor-to-ceiling wrap-around windows, which allowed for gorgeous views of the Williamsburg Bridge as well as what I think was the Chrysler Building, the top lit up in a rainbow of colors--it was comfortably full of about 30 people. The lighting was reddish, seductive. In a corner, an upright bassist and a guitarist were playing some kind of jangly punk-jazz. There was a waiter in jeans and a rock T-shirt; a central table that was rapidly filling up with all sorts of exotic dishes that Mr. Meast was preparing at the kitchen island; and beautiful people with stylish haircuts, designer eyewear and unpronouncable names abounded. From the looks of things, I couldn't imagine another party in all of Manhattan I'd rather be at.

When the musicians took a break, Duval and I helped ourselves to some food and found seats on the long couches along the windows. I ended up next to the bassist, in black jeans and a grey vest. He said Mr. Meast met him on the street, while he was playing on Mercer Street, the week before, and invited him to play the party. I asked him if he'd "weathered" his bass himself. (It looks like an antique wooden table, with the silver-gray paint chipping off it.) He told me the bass was actually made of steel (all but the neck); that it used to be an old Navy bass; and that the parts where it looked like wood was showing throw were actually just scratched. How cool is that? A Navy bass? Who knew?

We moved on to topic number two: How excited he was to be having a baby with his life partner--whom he then pointed out, sitting across the room, wearing a wrap dress over her belly bulge, and cowboy boots.

I lost a little enthusiasm for the conversation at that point.

The second guy I met--who looked a bit like trumpet-playing crooner Chet Baker in his older years, though less haggard (i.e. pretty hot)--was very fun, too; but not a match for me either, considering he was gay.

A third guy, a dead ringer for vintage Italian film star Marcello Mastriani (i.e., incredibly hot), seemed pretty shady: He was from some country where a romance language was spoken, but passed through New York every few months for a job that had something to do with importing construction equipment and renting lofts. Sexy mobster? Maybe.

Mr. Meast--along with, really, every other dude there--only had eyes for my knock-out of a friend, understandably. In fact, Mr. Meast never bothered to get my name, or to engage me in conversation; he even, as Duval and I were standing there together, took her glass and re-filled it without so much as asking me if I'd like more to drink, too ... and then tried to feed her watermelon from his mouth.

It was a bit weird to feel so invisible.

Duval and I later snuck off and continued chatting in her apartment, which was the best part of the night.

I was planning to stay in on Saturday evening with my tail between my legs, working on a few stories that I've got to hand in tomorrow. (How am I ever going to cut 800 words by the morning?) But I worked hard all afternoon, then hit the gym, and by the time night rolled around, I was jonesing for a little social interaction. So I put on my favorite dress--a new button-up thing with very thin epaulettes and a collar you can flip up made by I-N-C--as well as some orange fishnets, and a pair of heels, and dropped by a little cocktail party being thrown by a memoirist, a friend of a friend, who lives in Chelsea. I only stayed for 30 minutes or so, but in that time, I managed to meet enough nice people (and to get enough second glances) that my self-esteem was restored.

Dressing extra-nicely that night made me feek so good that it was a lesson learned: I've decided to make an effort to splurge a little on clothes in the upcoming months. Not that fancy duds are going to suddenly turn me into a model, but they help me to feel more sure of myself, and I think that confidence is worth the extra dollars.

In fact ... I've decided to make myself over a bit in the next few weeks: to make an extra effort to look especially good when I go out; to think about changing my make-up routine; and maybe even changing my gym look. Who knows what else? I've got some fashion tips on how to dress cheaply on a budget coming in from Target ASAP, which I will post as soon as possible. Anyway, I'll keep you up to speed on all this stuff.


PS: As everyone who follows me on Twitter probably knows, we have readers from all over the place! Which is very exciting for me. To date, I've heard from people in Kiev, Ukraine; Belgrade, Serbia; Colombia; Tasmania and Paris, France ... not to mention all over England (Nottingham, Darlington, London, Bath) and Canada. Thank you so much for reading!

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