I’m sure it does. It has to. It has to get worse than being the old chick at the Hamptons meet and greet. The Hamptons are really Manhattan with suntan lotion and sand. Everyone finds their way out there, to a share house, to wear black and hang out with the same faces they would run into in Manhattan. It’s just what we do. Here’s what I don’t do. I don’t do Star Room or Jet East. I’ve already made that promise. I wouldn’t do Marquee in Manhattan; I’m not doing velvet on the island. That’s just me.
I’d prefer to grill and booze it up on a hammock. I prefer flip flops to Gucci heels when it comes to summer. I want to escape Manhattan not rearrange it’s inhabitants. I enjoy the Hamptons because of the space, because of clam bakes, Webber grilles, and live music at Stephen’s Talkhouse. But that’s just me. Tonight, I attended a Hamptons meet and greet, where you meet people in your share house, on Bowery & Rivington. The organizer was dyslexic. "Irvington" sounded like a real street to all of us.
Tonight, at 29, I was the old chick. It was borderline mortifying. But I was already mortified earlier in the day, when an email I’d forwarded to a friend accidentally got forwarded on to the original recipient with all comments in tact. We’re all of the email era–error. We know about ‘reply to all,’ about ‘bcc,’ about carbon copied lives, yet my retard blond friend did the unspeakable and forwarded on a message showing my vulnerability. I have never said, ‘I could die" more often. "Reply to All" functionality ought to become extinct, like wisdom teeth or a tail. But it was me, so of course I laughed and didn’t really care. I’ll tell you what I cared about… being the OLD BAG at the Hamptons meet and greet. Everyone who talked to me was 24, and whenever I meet anyone younger than my very immature sister (who I love), who I’m supposed to spend time with, I begin to twitch. Okay, so I don’t twitch, but there’s something just wrong with the whole scenario. Had I the guest list in my inbox, I’d have hit reply to all, then typed "unsubscribe." There’s just something terribly depressing about being 29 at a party full of 24. I’m all of a sudden the old chick. I mean, really, the old chick, The Bag. I need new friends, older friends. 24, for me, is nothing more than a TV show and a way not to spend my summer.
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