One evening, earlier this week, I found myself completely exhausted.
No, it was not as a result of any rigorous exercise or feeding our hordes of chickens. Rather, it was from watching the Netflix documentary ‘Queenmaker: The Making of an It Girl’. The film detailed how publicists, stylists and photographers (along with willing subjects) created ‘It’ girls around the height of Paris Hilton’s fame. Well-connected, high-flying young ladies would hit red carpets and fabulous, exclusive clubs until the wee hours, wearing all the right designers and carrying the fancy handbags, while all the time looking effortlessly stunning, even while someone held their hair.
It then (somewhat) pivoted to tell the story of a very specific individual who started up a website about these socialites – which subsequently had a huge following – and what happened to that person once they moved to New York to meet and befriend their idols.
I don’t know that I would necessarily recommend the documentary, but it had some interesting moments. We mainly chose it because it was what we call a SAM (Short A** Movie) – perfect when a two-hour-or-longer film is too much of a commitment later in the night. Which brings me to the whole exhaustion thing…
Looking at these young ladies heading out to the clubs around midnight or later, I thought, “Wow – I used to do that. How did I do that?” That’s because I was thinking of it all while in my 50+-year-old skin, slouching on the couch, trying to scrape the last stubborn plop of ice cream from the bottom of its container. When I was young, I wasn’t mincing down red carpets, or dealing with the velvet-rope situation that anyone living in cities like Manhattan had to endure – in Cayman, so long as you had the entrance money, you were good to go.
We’d head out to the bars first; meet up with friends; and hope the person we were interested in would be there that night. Then, we’d make our way to the nightclubs and dance the hours away until the final song was played (always a slow number), followed by the switching on of the main lights indicating it was time to go home.
By then we would have been wearing high heels for hours, and it wasn’t a problem. We could have gone for a couple more hours before even considering Dr. Scholl’s.
The ladies in this documentary would do the same, but they’d be on parade. Apparently, they had to have the right background in order to be accepted into New York society. Then, if they went from one party to another, they had to change outfits in between, because heaven forfend they be caught in the same outfit at two different events! They had to learn how to pose, and be prepared to see their picture in any newspaper that covered the nightlife scene. Fledgling websites and blogs actually ranked them on how cool (or hot) they were. The pressure to look good and be seen with the right people was overwhelming. I felt knackered just thinking about it.
Honestly, at this age, I can’t imagine navigating my way through a long night in Skechers, let alone Louboutins. I’m sure I’ve written about this before, but my best friend Lynne and I were out about 10 years ago and, for some reason – as the bar was closing – we still had lots of energy. So, we decided to head to the club. It was 1am so maybe we’d get a bit of a boogie in.
“If there’s a big lineup at the door, we’ll just head home,” I said, teetering in some heeled boots that I’d insisted on donning and were now damaging the balls of my feet.
Not only was there not a lineup – there was no one there. It was only us, the DJ and the serving staff in the place.
“Where is everyone?” I asked, clinging to the bar to keep my balance.
“Oh, they don’t start showing up until around 2am,” the bemused bartender said.
Just to show that we were the coolest chicks in the place, we headed to the dance floor; got the DJ to play a retro number that was way outside his comfort zone – “Something with lyrics”, Lynne yelled; and left, as the real clubbers began to trickle in.
Man… I’m definitely happy to have left the late-night scene behind and all the worries about what to wear, with it. These websites stating that women over 50 shouldn’t sport jeans or similar garments (although I’m avoiding spaghetti strap tops now that my upper arms seem to be developing pleats) don’t understand that with age comes the benefit of not caring so much what others think.
Rather than regretting what I might have changed if I had my youth to do over, I think I’ll instead aspire to be Iris Apfel – the amazing designer and style icon who recently passed away at the age of 102. She rocked chunky fashion jewellery, bold colours and glasses with insane frames – simply awesome.
Now, she’s what I’d call an ‘It’ girl.
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