It has just come to my attention that I completely forgot about the mother effing CONCERT that we enjoyed on Friday evening before Superhero night. My timeline is a mess. Between seasickness, vodka and adrenaline, I have no idea when anything happened. Or even if it happened, tbh. So yeah, there was a concert! I saw some of it as I nestled into the right breast of the woman next to me. Both sexually and so I could see around the giant pole in front of my seat. And obviously it was delightful. You all know this. You were there. They’re goddamn delightful when they get microphones in their hands. And anytime I can watch Jon struggle through choreography, I’m happy. He’s a mess. A beautiful, beautiful mess. I’d love to be another notch in his best friend belt. So. Putting that out into the universe to speak it into existence. Unless he makes me go outside or stop eating meat or something. Then I’m out.
So. We thought for sure we’d be able to hit the deck party a little earlier that night, since the show got out fairly early and we just had to throw on some unitards. But no. It was a whole thing. I mentioned before that we had way too much spandex and lofty delusions about our appearances. This was never more evident than on Superhero night. I was dressed as The Flash, Jenn was The Green Lantern, and having exhausted other costume options over the weeks leading up to the cruise, Rae landed on The Joker (sort of). Rae is a lot more cognizant of what looks good on her. Jenn and I just sort of said, “Ass out, class out!” and shrugged. I made sure to get good and buzzed before putting on my dreaded leotard. I hadn’t bought any Spanx or other “sucky inny” undergarments for some reason. So I just had to go out into the world with my body being the shape of my body. I jumped into some fishnets and then zipped myself into the thickest material I’ve ever had the pleasure of sweating in. And for some reason, I thought I was killin’ it. I even stuffed some tissue in the outsides of my boobs to push them together more. Cleavage is a process. Half my ass was hanging out, and I knew damn well I had cellulite. But my buzzed mind thought fishnets were magic erasers.
So I was strutting. So was Jenn. We were twinsies in outfit and makeup…and ass. Obviously, we brought those asses over to Roosevelt to say a quick hello. He approved. Then we saw all five New Kids file into the elevators to head up to Lido. Then we ran into Z and got held up even more. It was already nearing midnight. We hadn’t even set foot on Lido yet. But. I was REALLY feeling this costume, so I wanted to go be seen.
Once we stepped onto Lido, the wind hit my butt cheeks and I began to reconsider. There was absolutely nowhere to go, and I was already sweating. Jenn and I decided to descend into the crowd and try to find Christina, Dan and co. if only to see what adorable outfits they were wearing. While fighting elbows and straight up humidity, I heard a yell from close to the stage. It was Brandon, giving me a big thumbs up for my outfit. But, realistically, it could only have been in approval of the top part of my head. It was too hot and crowded to stay there in our scuba-material outfits, so Jenn and I headed back to our safe space behind the pool to awkwardly dance around without our butt-jiggles causing the boat to rock more than it already was. The only saving grace was Jon and Donnie dressed hilariously as the Ambiguously Gay Duo. Like. Nothing could ever be more perfect. I laughed out loud. For almost too long. Moving on…We tried to lean into the amount of ass, taking butt-to-butt pictures that’ll never see the light of day. Melissa Lima strutted by, also rocking fishnets and buttcheeks, but doing it with a damn cheat code or something. She insisted that we looked “AMAZING” because she’s a really kind liar, and then said, “Fix your tits!” and made me tighten my bra straps to lift my sad torpedoes to attention. I’ll always thank her for that.
It was nearing 2am and my feet, knees and will to live were hurting. We made an executive decision to go grab some pizza and take a short nap before the after party. So we could be fresh-ish. As fresh as one can be when they’ve been sweating into three-inch thick, vagina-hugging material for several hours. I mentioned before how Rae is an expert at sleeping like she’s at her own funeral. She seriously folds her hands, smooths her hair and sleeps without messing up anything about her look. I thought I’d take a cue from her and try the same thing. I didn’t have time to redo any makeup before the after party if I wanted to catch any sleep. So I looked over at Rae to get some pointers, snapped a quick photo because I was sure I’d need it for blog reasons, and then fell asleep myself. Doing what I thought was the exact same funereal pose.
Evidently, Rae also took a picture of me, but only one of us is a big jerkface. She swore she’d never let that picture into the world, but I have no shame so here it is. It sums up my tendency to exaggerate my attractiveness in my mind more than anything I’ve ever seen.
Even though we swore all night that we were so uncomfortable with our asses out, none of us changed before going to the after party. We all just strutted in, past the line of hopeful Blockheads waiting to get in. Melissa smacked me so hard on the ass that it’s actually STILL jiggling, and we headed straight for the dance floor. I like to do this thing where if I know Donnie (or anyone even remotely famous) is near me, I pretend I am way too cool to care about it. This usually backfires in a big way since I have yet to get a selfie with any of them on these cruises. I got another drink, popped a Stacker (remember those from high school?) and started dancing like it was Wall to Wall Wednesday at The Margarita Grille. That’s a very local reference, and I apologize. But you can imagine. I had sweat dripping down my face. My hair was just wet at that point. But I kept dancing. If I stopped dancing, I was pretty sure I’d drop dead. Actually dead. Plus, Donnie was bopping around the dance floor. I know “Breakfast Club” is a lot like fight club, in that we’re not supposed to talk about it and maybe some of the people there are just a fragment of someone’s severe mental illness, but whatever. Donnie caught my eye on the crowded dance floor and grabbed me into a giant hug while someone else reenacted “freak dancing” from 7th grade way too close to him.
I fear I’ve been friendzoned by Donnie Wahlberg. I have no idea how to explain that in a way that doesn’t make me sound like a creep. But I don’t mean it in the way that douchey guys who say, “salutations, m’lady” mean it. I just mean that he smiles, wraps me in a hug and smooches my forehead or cheeks when he sees me. It’s very…”this girl is such a card!” Does that make sense? It makes me feel an innocence I threw in the garbage and lit on fire years ago. And that’s totally ok with me. But I do think he’d be horrified to hear some of my comedy material. Because. Reasons.
After that lovely moment, I swam through the sea of frantic dancing to get to the stairs. Making the dance floor resemble a literal pit was a terrible idea. There is no air in there. No air, no air. Read that in a Jordin Sparks voice. Or Chris Brown if you’re punchy. But I did take a moment to lock eyes with a beautiful brunette who I feel is from a South American country (but I literally have nothing to base that on) and have a short-lived dance battle. She smiled as I struggled to keep up, and I had to call it quits before I shit out a lung. I was dying. I had to call it. I couldn’t breathe or stand anymore and there was so much sweat all over my body that I was afraid I’d start to slip through cracks, Alex Mac style. It was gross.