Desert Exile: Closing Party for the Palm Springs International Shortfest

The condo is fairly silent; the only sounds are the near-constant hum of the air conditioner, and the periodic mewls from the cats as they follow me around and cast me alternately aggrieved and expectant looks. What they want, I have not a clue. (But then, I don't have a clue what I want, either, so at least we're all even.) They won't be getting much attention from me tonight, for I'm engrossed in my toilette.

Tonight's the night of the closing party for the Palm Springs International ShortFest. Two years ago, I had not a clue that the ShortFest existed. I did not know what a Short was. And then a former boss/colleague/friend/mentor gave me a call. "I've got a spare ticket to the Closing Night show and the party. Want to come? Lots of young men from LA will be there."

(Now I can't think of anything less appealing. But two years ago? I was itching to get out of the Desert, or at least get some lovin' before I did.)

So I went. I enjoyed some charming short films--an animated film about a boy and an annoyingly persistent penguin stand out in my mind--and I noticed someone.

"Former Boss," said I, "Who's that handsome man, streaking past like a blonde comet."

Former Boss followed the direction of my gaze. "Oh, that's Himself," she said. "He runs the theatre. I'll introduce you later."

And she did. And then, four months later, we were engaged, and eight months after that, we were married. So I will happily admit to having a soft spot in my heart for the ShortFest closing party.

Now, though, there's no such sentimental claptrap floating about in my brain. I'm in a race against time; I need to be ready to head out the door the second Himself calls. So I twist my hair up, wishing my neck were longer and my face more angular. I truss myself into a halter dress and am momentarily disconcerted by the cleavage which fairly overflows from my dress. There will be plenty of suggestive looks later at the party, but for the love of cats--right now, my girls are an asset. So I'll use them as such, and so shrug off the feeling of uneasy exposure which comes when ever I market myself in a revealing light.

On goes the powder and concealer, the eyeshadow and the mascara and the lipstick. Jewelry takes a few more minutes--nothing necessary on the neck, why should I detract from the natural charms? My hand hovers over a pair of crystal danglies, and then pluck out the Hello Kitty danglies I picked up in Cozumel last year. No sense in being too fancy, and the Hello Kitty earrings will make a quirky contrast to the black and white revealing dress. It's an international crowd which will be there tonight, but despite the language barriers, it always feels as though they follow a uniform fashion code of more hipster garb, or else the very newest casual trend. My garb--very much last year, and JC Penneys to boot--doesn't have a hope in hell of being fashionable, so what's the point in trying to underplay the sparkly, curvy elegance of my halter sundress? It's mine, therefore it's fine. So Hello Kitty earrings are discarded, and the crystal danglies now adorn my ears. They look better with the dress anyway.

This is far more effort than I ever used to put into what I wear. In my early twenties, I usually wore boot-cut jeans, a tank-top, a flannel, Skechers, and a do-rag to my college classes, and was quite happy and almost belligerent in how I sported this look. But the years have changed me--I now try to "dress for the job I want, not the one I have", and while no one would catch me buying Dolce and Gabanna, or some such nonsense, I do try to clean up now. I learned my lesson after last year's ShortFest closing party--I was recovering from a far-too-wild party held the night before (also ShortFest related) and praying that no one recognized me as the chick who had been on the floor of the Ace Hotel's bathroom. I also had not put too much effort into what I wore. Which is of course why it stood to reason that one of the event photographers snapped several pictures of me with my husband, and I think at least one of them ended up in the Society Pages of Desert Life.

Tonight, before the party. I'm not sporting
a hangover this year, thank goodness!

Later:
The party is now over, and I am once more at home, in a comfortable (and ugly) pair of jammies. The party was great; there were so many people that I already knew that I had to spend virtually no time talking to the LA crowd. Yes, I know they are our bread and butter, and I welcome them and thank them, but I don't know them. Working this party scene over the last year, I've come to realize it's not the parties themselves that I dread, it's the having to make conversation with person after person after person whom I have never met. Invariably, they are kind and interesting and sometimes drunk, but it's exhausting. Socializing never sat easy on me; it did and does take a huge mental effort for me.

So I am home, and I have a splitting headache, and my throat is raw from hollering over the music, and I feel drained from it all. But it was a good, good night, with good, good people. And I can retreat back into my hermit cave for another week, and put away the cleavage and the sparkly earrings.

It was a fun night. And who knows? Maybe for someone else, it was a magical night. Maybe someone else met their future life partner tonight at the party. Maybe someone else's life completely changed.