You’re sitting at home thinking, I ought to do something exciting with my night. So you get dressed up all nice, drink a few beers, and then head to the club. You know there will be a really long line, but you think to yourself, I don’t mind the wait. It will be worth it.
So you pack your clutch full of everything you’ll need. Lots of money. Your cell phone with your bffs on speed dial. And your best tube of lipstick. You think about packing an insole for your too-tight heels, but they don’t fit into your over-stuffed bag.
You ask your friends if they’re going. And some of them do. But some of them say the club scene isn’t really their thing, and they’re fine going to the local bar or staying at home with a bottle of wine. You think they’re pretty smart for saving all their money, but you secretly wonder if they’ll really be having that much fun. So you drive to the club, ready to have a good time, but knowing there will probably be a line out front.
And when you get there, yeah, there’s a line out front but it’s a whole lot longer than you imagined. Luckily you have an advantage: your name is on the list. So you park your car, you put on your hugely uncomfortable heels you bought for too much money, but not too much, and hobble to the front of the line. But it’s a smug hobble, because you walk past the long queue, past everyone who’s been waiting for a long time, and finally you get to the bouncer.
“Callie Mills.” You say with a smile, excited to be going inside but staying calm because only losers get noticeably excited.
He scans the list. His brow furrows.
“You’re not on here.”
“There must be some mistake. My friend’s friend who knows a guy said he’d put my name on there…” You say.
“You’re not on here,” He says. “End of the line.”
You throw up your arms.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You say. But then you see her. It’s Allison, from work. At least, you think that’s her name. You’ve said hi a few times, but you don’t really know her. Like, you wouldn’t go out to lunch know her. But you’d nod on the way to the copy machine know her.
“Allison! Hey, girl!” You say, as she walks through the doors.
“Remember me? From work!”
But she doesn’t hear you. She’s too busy laughing and smiling and chatting and brushing her perfectly done hair behind her ear. She’s in, you’re out. So, it’s end of the line.
You take off your heels because they already hurt, and make your way back to the line. You feel like a dog that just got told to go to its crate.
Back here the people are still hopeful. They’re ready to have a good time. They don’t know how long they’ll have to wait.
And so you stand at the end of the line, as time goes by, and you wonder if there’s even a chance you’ll get in before bar close.
And that’s my metaphor for show business.