I chose my own adventure.
Last night, after casing the Pop Up Flea for All Plaid Out, after lobster and martinis at the Mermaid Oyster Bar, after sulking in a corner at Soho House, we finally got to the Boom Boom Room.
I’m a secret fan of cruise ships (so much camp! so much food!) so this place feels like home.
But last night I felt very uncomfortable. I was still wearing my Flea-appropriate khaki pants.
Y’all know how much I love khaki pants. But after midnight they did not work to my advantage. They felt constricting. They felt wrong. They put me at an unfair disadvantage when fighting for bar space with a leopard minidress-bedecked Lily Donaldson.
I excused myself from my posse of tequila-tossers, checked my military coat, beat Leslie Bibb to the first open bathroom, locked the door, snapped the above photo, removed my pants, stuffed them in my purse, and walked back out.
First rule of partying: Always wear a shirt that covers your ass.
