Friends closest to me know this fun fact about me- I wore daytime headgear. As a teenager. Like, during the day. In front of people who decided my survival in already-brutal teen social circles. That brand of cruel character building made me a moth to all things exclusive and important, starting the minute the metal around my face was removed. I would’ve been thrilled to be ignored during that chapter, but my personality never learned subtlety. It’s okay, the dweeb in headgear glowed-up just fine and turned out to be a mostly kind person, but the long term side effect was an affinity for fancy-person access and the need to feel prioritized.

When I started getting paid to write, the access seduced me. I was a writer in the music industry and in hindsight, I probably only sacrificed sleep and sanity for the bragging rights to say I met my heroes or to talk about that time I had lunch with Mark Foster and how he was an asshole. On paper, it was a sexy lifestyle with lots of flashy VIP badges and walking past crowds with lesser access. I probably wasn’t actually that cool but I sure as shit felt extremely cool. A decade later, I want to punch myself in the face for thinking or saying things like "I only want to go if I can get VIP— let’s see if we can get VIP— I can probably pull a string or two and get us into VIP." The entertainment industry did a fantastic job naming a small section for important people and if you’re lucky enough to be invited into or pay to be in that section, your happiness and satisfaction becomes a priority, even just for the night. 

A few weeks ago, when I was in Miami getting my groove back, I ducked into Soho House for lunch.
** Sidenote: I know “getting my groove back” means something very different. There was absolutely no grooving in Miami. But it sounds cute so I’m sticking with it.

I packed a bag for the day to lay around mid-beach. By 1:00pm, my phone battery was down to 12% and my roasted almonds weren’t doing the job. I accidentally packed an edible, but that was a guaranteed bad time on an empty stomach so I put on my hoe shorts and sauntered into the Soho Beach House Hotel- heels in hand, runny mascara, half the beach in my hair, full hearts, can’t lose. The concierge was a DOLL and judged me by my bag and not the fact that I was shirtless and shoeless in the Soho House Hotel, asking for a table for 1 near an outlet to charge my phone. It was all fine and dandy, but the restaurant requires all customers to wear a shirt, which I was lacking. So my new concierge friend brought me a hotel towel to cover up with.

There I was, sitting in the hotel restaurant in a towel. Not just any hotel, a hotel famed for its exclusivity and calibur of clientele. There were three of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen up close seated next to me. They looked like the offspring of Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem, accidentally posing for an art print I’d probably hang in my apartment, wearing hot-white derby dresses and sun hats. Pan over a little to the right and you’ll find yours truly in a towel, dipping a napkin corner into sparkling water to maybe get some of the sweaty mascara off my cheeks. These gorgeous women were visibly bothered by my existence, like trashy was contagious. Those sun hats were a handy shield for blocking me out of sight but also, how dare I sit so close to them in such an establishment. I almost volunteered to enjoy my cob salad out back by the service elevators. Trying not to feel an ounce of embarrassment, I pulled out a book to kill time with, since I couldn’t escape into my phone charging behind me. 

I printed my boarding pass on the way to Miami because I’m a noob who forgot how to travel in an all-things-digital world. I haven’t read a book in longer than I’d like to admit, I settled into vacation mode on the plane and my boarding pass was given new life as my bookmark.

P R I O R I T Y

Those letters slapped me in the face every time I opened my book, reminding me to make myself one. Not to just pay for some sort of priority experience or dip myself in socialite glitter to make other people acknowledge me as a priority, but to truly put myself first and forget the world for a second- what would that look like? Shit, had I even tried it before?

My usual season of change is all wrapped up with a bow on top- I moved, unpacked in record time, I got the dog neutered, I started a new job, I took a vacation, I checked in on my people, baked some cake, put up all the art and stocked the pantry with rainy day necessities. It’s done. The season for preparedness and problem solving is done. 

So while the rest of my demographic is welcoming hot girl summer with open arms (present and accounted for!) I’m calling this personal restart my Priority Boarding Season. I have no idea what that looks like yet- it will involve recovery from people pleasing tendencies and checking in on myself before I rush to fire-fight or try to solve the world’s problems with yet another loaf of banana bread. 

Happy Priority (Boarding) Season- we’re not doing anything we don’t want to do, we’re walking with a little VIP pep in our step, we’re the right amount of selfish, and goddamit, we’re eating lunch alone at the Soho House Hotel in a towel. It’s divine.