Last night the husband and I went to a birthday party for one of The Models. I had been dreading it as only deep dread can be dread…or something. Basically I’m terribly self-conscious around these absolutely, stunningly, amazingly, inhumanly beautiful women. And they’re not fake in any way. They are just naturally beautiful to the extent that I find myself sometimes staring at them, because they just don’t seem real. One in particular, who was dating Luke W1lson until recently or may be still, is just shockingly exotic with these aqua colored cat eyes and, literally though I know it sounds cheesy, cascading dark hair. She’s almost like a painting.

The worst part??? They’re NICE too. Bitches. (I’m kidding.)

So they set up their living room with miscellaneous tables to form one huge long table, like a super girly Thanksgiving with lots of pink and candles. There were people from China, Argentina, France, Tunisia, and Germany. Oh, and Sweden. It was like a UN of Beautiful People. Despite my self-absorbed insecurities I had a wonderful time. I spoke with a fascinating and very sexy old French dude who was a photographer. Argued politics with a Swede who is so conservative he makes me look liberal. And discussed the difficulties of marriage with the model from Argentina.

From last evening I took away the lesson that I can’t let my perception of myself limit me. I’m sure they all thought, “man, she should loose some weight.” But they didn’t *not* talk to me because I’m not One of Them, in fact, I realized that even the beyond beautiful have problems too.

But this morning? I’m HUNG.. OVER.. Badly.. Too much red wine. Waaaaaay too much. But the bottles were scattered all over the table and so easy to keep just refilling your glass over the brie and cigarettes and stimulating conversation. It was a great time.

Sweet Jesus does my body hurt, though.