Hey you! You're the girl from the 4th floor...

I am not what you would call ‘classy’ by any stretch. I enjoy coming home from work and slipping on my sweatpants, taking off the bra and lounging. Pretty much every day. If we order in, my husband answers the door because there is no way in hell I am scaring a delivery driver with my 32 year old tits saying hello.

That’s just traumatizing.

But this is not to say I don’t enjoy putting on the pretense of being classy. Truth be told, I can appear classy as fuck if I put some effort into it (that part I don’t enjoy much. EFFORT) and it’s kind of fun to revel in the niceties.

On one such occasion, I was staying at the Westin in Las Vegas for a business trip. If you’ve never been there, it’s like a block off the strip and pretty fucking amazeballs, so stay there. Anyways, I decided to class it up a bit by enveloping myself in the fantastic terry-cloth robe they provided and order room service to eat in my King Size bed overlooking the fantastic lights of Vegas on the 4^th floor. Ok, so not a fantastic view at only 4 floors up, but still awesome.

I showered, shaved, wrapped myself up (towel turban style of course) and spread myself out on the bed and ate my delicious asparagus omelet with truffle essence (a fancy name for truffle flavored cream cheese. Can I just say DELICIOUS MOTHER FUCKING CREAM CHEESE) and pretended I was a millionaire having just a regular day. 

Me. But not me. You get it.

See? Classy as fuck.

When I was done (read: getting bored) I opened the door to my room and placed my tray on the ground after observing that apparently this is protocol for room service. And stood there like a complete tool as the door shut behind me.

No big deal. I’ll just turn the handle and walk right back in. You see where this is going.

Now, someone whose used to being all classy as fuck would just walk over to the elevators and use the provided phone to call down to the concierge to send a bellhop up to let me back in. Ya, I didn’t do that. I panicked. And refused to look a single person in the eye as they walked by.

Remember now, I am in a housecoat and TURBAN TOWEL. 

Me. But not me. YOU GET IT.

After about 10 minutes of me avoiding eye contact and shaking like a leaf, I finally asked a sweet old lady if I could use the phone in her room. I called down, a bellhop came up (he took his damn sweet time though) and I was finally let into my room.

No one will ever have to know.

Or so I thought.

That night, as my friend and I went to meet up with some coworkers, we were introduced to a few friends of my coworkers niece who drove up from somewhere in California for the night. One of them, a tall dark drink of water, smiles, and says “Hey, you’re the girl on the 4^th floor of the Westin…”

Awesome.