Eighteen dollar cosmos

Tonight was a different experience than I expected when I woke up this morning.

This morning I woke up vaguely around 11 and scooted around, doing house-y and eat-y things till 2:30, when I had to go to class to eat some more (see: Cook the Books). Then I went to archery, and after eating way too much sugar at archery the gang headed out for some sushi on Bloor (though not actually AT Sushi on Bloor). Then I got a text from my model/co-waitress-friend who had invited me to this “thing” her friend was having at the Thompson Hotel. “Thing” was actually a pretty good definition.

I went home, put on my Betseys and a silk top from my rich aunt (google Toronto Thompson if you want to know why it had to be silk) and I biked (!) down to meet my friend. In heels. Ow and erk and every awkward noise you can imagine. We walked from Dundas to Queen (no easy feat in five inch Betseys) to meet her friend, then trekked down to Bathurst and Wellington, which is where the über-swanky Thompson is located.

I knew we weren’t cut out for this society when we failed to open the door to the diner (called so ironically. It is highly upscale). Literally three tries and thirty seconds in the lobby and we couldn’t get in the door till the hostess (somewhat derisively) opened the door INWARDS for us. (I apologise for all these parentheses. I might have alcohol in my system. Maybe.)

So after our first encounter with this impressive nouveau-riche monolith, we attempted to get to the rooftop bar where the “thing” was being held. The three of us – two of us easily over six foot and one of us at 5’9″ only, even IN HEELS – I’m not sure why I added that, just pointing out that I felt small and inadequate – stumbled around the hotel foyer till we found the elevator and got in. We pressed the “R for Rooftop” button. The doors closed. We didn’t move.

We pressed the 14 button, hoping to take the elevator up then use the stairs, if need be. We didn’t move.

One of us (who was smarter than I; I admit it was not me) pushed the Door Open button and the three of us were faced with a very heavily sneering elevator porter. (Those still exist??!) The heavily sneering elevator porter inserted a key card into a slot that all of us had somehow missed, then hit R and dismissed us.

We finally made it up to R, the Rooftop Patio, and were immediately faced with a gorgeous Toronto skyline (pic below) and a beautifully illuminated outdoor pool. What. We turned to the bar area and felt dramatically underdressed – plunging necklines, tailored suits, shoes that cost more than my monthly rent. Models and their managers, models and their meal tickets, models and their aspiring model friends. Lots of models, basically. I never would’ve known they were all models, if it weren’t for model-friend; I thought I was just statistically shorter and less beautiful than normal, like maybe it was a rich thing and one day when I’m rich and famous I can buy myself some height and stunning cheekbones. I’m obtuse like that. But model-friend told me she’d never seen that many models in one place. So that’s how I knew there were models. Partying. ON A TUESDAY. What.

The three of us, though I know two of us were feeling woefully underdressed and one of us was feeling even more inadequate, made our way over to the bar to order a Jack and Coke, a Jack and Diet, and a Cosmo. The total bill was thirty-eight dollars. WHAT.

This was the point at which I texted my Bro (not brother – my Bro is actually female but when we’re together we act like males) that I was at a rooftop party with a model and my drink cost $18. She texted back that I clearly knew how to spend my Tuesdays. Which I do. I took that as a compliment and not as a commentary on how utterly weird my day had become (which it had).

So the three of us hung around for a bit, freezing our asses off outside on the patio and joking about cigarette butts flicked from the 16th floor setting babies on fire on the sidewalks below. We were allowed to joke about it because at 10:30 at night no babies should be roaming around downtown Toronto, that is very dangerous and they probably should be at home in bed. The chance of baby-inflammation was incredibly low so it was an appropriate joke at the time. If it had been about 30 degrees hotter and about 12 hours earlier, the possibility would’ve been more real and therefore the joke would not have been funny. But babies walking around at 10:30 pm on a Tuesday getting set on fire by a cigarette butt thrown from the 16th floor in minus 2 degree weather will likely never be a problem. I forget where I was going with this.

So model-friend and I finished our drinks and headed for the elevator, because damn, there is no way we are spending any more money on alcohol that should cost $7 at most. We wondered if you needed an elevatorporter to get down as well and felt too embarrassed to ask any of the fancy suited men or fancy shod ladies so we just waited and luckily another model got off the elevator and we got on and pushed the button and it worked.

Model-friend and I walked back up to Dundas (I shakily due to heelage and shorter-leggage) and decided that what we needed was some cheap booze and a place where NOBODY was wearing a suit. So we got out our bikes, Hank and Rusty, and saddled up the Super Badass Biker Gang (making sure our safety flashing lights were on). We headed over to where Bartender II works and got some blissfully cheap alcohol in an environment that allowed us to a) sit down on normal chairs, b) not feel underdressed even in fancy shoes, and c) not have to worry about flaming babies. And then life was good and STILL not what I had envisioned for my Tuesday night when I got up this morning.

The moral of the story is that life is weird and will bring you to strange and awesome places if you agree to going to “things” with your model friends, because that really wasn’t a party, it was more like a bunch of people paying too much for drinks on a Tuesday and a few people knew each other but it seemed like mostly it was small groups of people introducing themselves to other small groups. But the real moral of the story is don’t pay $18 for a Cosmo when it won’t even be that special, unless you are drinking diamonds. And then watch out in about 24 hours because your bottom will likely hurt a lot.

But the actual moral that has nothing to do with parties or butts is to take chances and try new things, because even if I never go to a “thing” like that again, at least now I can say that I have tasted an $18 cosmo, and got to briefly experience the life that goes with it.

Toronto skyline

$18 cosmos will buy you this view

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