Fatal Fauxpas by Taylore Scarabelli
Two days before the Met Gala, my friend August and I were joking about going to the Red Carpet and trying to get in. He told me he was actually making a dress for our other friend to wear, her being his escort as he would pretend to be a fashion designer who was invited to the event. I had no idea if he was being serious or not. I didn’t even know if I was being serious.
On the day of the Gala, I posted a Facebook status for shits and gigs. Almost instantly my friends started commenting their approval. My friend Taylore was the first, so I hit her up to see if she really wanted to go through with it. Of course she did. Of course I did. We all made plans to meet at my place by 6 p.m.
Originally, I was going to wear this new flowy, silk, summerish black and white Galliano mini dress I got from Tokio 7 paired with my lavender patent leather thigh highs. Instead, upon Taylore’s arrival and dissatisfaction with the glam level of the first look, I whipped out an unbranded white and silver full-length regalesque coat that once belonged to my grandmother. I threw it on with nothing underneath besides a silver sequinned bikini bottom and my thigh highs.
I sipped the ten dollar Barefoot champagne she’d supplied for the occasion, posed for some photos, did my eye makeup in under 10 minutes, selected my accessories—my staple rhinestone choker, newest primrose patent leather Louis from Canal St. and a pair of vintage Gucci sunglasses—and trotted out. We hadn’t finished the champagne, but it was 7:30 p.m. and we were running late, so I shoved it in my bag as we clambered into the Uber.
The driver didn’t have an aux cord, which was annoying, but we sipped the champagne and took lots of cute photos on the way. When we got there, we walked to the area across the street from the red carpet where all the spectators stand to watch the celebs get out of their cars and ascend into the Met. Beyoncé was arriving, but I couldn’t see her because everyone was being extra and even my five-inch stilettos didn’t propel me high enough above all of the iPhones extended into the air.
Everyone kept staring at me—some were in awe and others just confused. The whole time I was hoping some celeb would see me amidst the crowd and come over to take me in with them. At one point I shoved my way to the front barrier and sat on it while Taylore clicked away. Kim and Kanye walked out with Naomi and I got a really good shot of Gigi holding hands with Zayn as they walked upstairs. I saw some underdressed woman with a badge walking off the red carpet in flats and I was pissed.
My feet started to hurt and we were all getting claustrophobic, so we decided to head out. I jumped over one of the barriers and a cop kept yelling at me to get out of the restricted walkway, or whatever. Before we left, I ran into the middle of the street to make myself seen and the crowd literally started screaming. We took the subway back downtown, some of my Instagram followers came up to me and told me they loved me and we ate mediocre pizza. It was a fun experience, but I’m definitely never going back unless I’m actually attending the event.
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