Having just moved to Washington, D.C. for the summer, I went out on the town with some friends and their friends. Well, really we went to a house party with some college pals of said friends. These college pals were Alumi of some prestigious university or another and, if I may say so, were completely pretentious – in the best way possible.
Let me paint a little word picture here: Upon entering this beautiful D.C. apartment – one that was right in the middle of what I m told is THE party spot in the city – I am introduced to a smallish guy wearing dress pants and a tie with a beer in hand. This man, the host, was pleasant but not exactly conversational. Immediately following this introduction I see something that has stuck in my mind for almost a week now. A girl, about 5’1 dressed in what appeared to be a brown pantsuit with a gold belt and a rhinestone headband. Upon closer inspection, this rhinestoned disaster was actually wearing skin tight brown lycra (or something like it) bell bottoms and a skin tight brown shirt. The rhinestone princess was swaying back and forth to the party mix. I think it was Enya. She was talking a little to loudly to two guys dressed to the nines and another unfortunately attired girl about how she was “just off the plane from Sri Lanka and very jet-lagged.” My friend and I were the only two in attendence dressed casually and, having not seen each other in a while chose to pour two stiff drinks and people watch from a safe distance. Unfortunately, apartments in “the district” are quite small and no distance in a house party is actually a safe one. As the party filled up, the people watching improved. Completely involved in our own cattyness, my friend and I were approached by a girl who seemed genuinely interested in who we were and what we were doing there. She sat down next to me and asked the age old icebreaker: “what do you do?” My answer, “Oh I’m an intern at an international consulting firm here in D.C.” That is where I hoped the conversation would stop. After sizing me up, this girl – who I swear was like a cold fish with brown hair, dead eyes, and a contrived mona lisa half smile without any of the mystery – asked me the dreaded question: “what kind of consulting?” well, this was the start of the downward spiral of a conversation that would be repeated several times over during the night… inevitably ending with my own blank stare as some pretentious east-coaster lectured me on policy making and their own personal importance to the American government. It was really entertaining telling them that, actually I went to a small private college where I majored in history because there was little work involved and my most cherished lessons were how to get out of a sticky situation with an R.A. using only a closet, a shower, and a 555 deal at pizza hut, how to throw a successful party involving jorts and face paint, and calculating the number of hours necessary to play 32 rounds straight of mario kart on the wii.
Overall, the night was a blast – even people with real jobs can let loose after 5 hours of drinking heavily, followed by an outing to the most blatantly jewish club that exists outside of Israel. We danced the night away southern california style to the poptastic tunes of rihanna and katy perry, mixed by some genius of a dj to the hava nigela and what im pretty sure was the soundtrack from fiddler on the roof.
This group of early twenty something future politicians have some things that I lack. Things like a legitimate college education, a cause, a career. But last saturday night I can honestly say that I may have taught them a lesson: no matter how smart or important you think you are, there is someone in the same room with you who just couldn’t care less.
