When I was invited to attend a Grammy viewing party sponsored by the Nashville chapter of The Recording Academy, how could I say no?
Like I’d ever say no to a party. In a bar. With cocktails. And food. And photo booths.
Four somebodies at a Grammy party.
What does one wear when the invitation states, “dress to impress” as the advised attire?
To leopard or not? Boots or heels? Oh the woes.
Selfies helped narrow down the wardrobe before I was all set to make my appearance.
All gussied up with somewhere to go.
Upon arriving to the gala, I prepped myself to walk the extremely short, fairly stained, freshly vacuumed red carpet.
Walk of fame.
As no media was present, I shouted my own name acting as paparazzi while I traipsed down the crimson rug.
Hey CBXB! Look right here!
Meeting up with my posse, we beelined for the bar (Anyone surprised? Anyone?) prior to taking our seats.
Ready to mingle.
Because I’m not a fan of standing for hours, I make a habit of arriving as soon as the doors of a venue open (completely being ‘uncool’ as all of the other Nashville hipsters arrive fashionably late).
No one on the floor but me and the DJ… but my ass will get a seat. Hallelujah!
I sat guzzling wine and flipping through the evening’s program, admiring my V.I.P. paper bracelet that so hideously clashed with my other accessories and watched all of the other somebodies arrive for the show.
If I were a true V.I.P. I probably wouldn’t need this bracelet now would I?
Assessing Nashville’s interpretation of “dress to impress” footwear choices had me arriving at the conclusion that this city embellishes their feet for comfort. Classy comfort.
Sensible wedges, sneakers and cowboy boots, oh my…
I missed the comfort memo.
As the venue filled up, I was a happy camper conversing with old friends and enjoying fabulous new times.
Does this wine match my nail polish? Does it?!
I forced deep conversations with my trio of gents that probably made their ears want to start bleeding.
Do you think Pharrell was trying to mimic Smokey the Bear by wearing that God awful hat?
No seriously, do you?
When they couldn’t take the fashion talk anymore, my buddies lured my vocal chords into remission by announcing the presence of a photo booth near the exit.
Record scratch.
A what?
Let me touch up my lipstick…
No talking during photo taking…
Apparently no smiling during photo taking, either.
We weren’t meant to be models. Clearly.
And while we hoarded the booth (much to my insistence) for a quarter of an hour, we forever captured the essence of us being our best version of somebodies in snapshots.
Lucky us.
CBXB
