The only thing more horrific than spending every last dime I had on this yacht, was crashing it into Bora Bora, killing all 5 of my friends on board.
With nothing more than 20 suitcases of haute couture shoes and dresses, the only thing I was well-equipped to do was to look like a bad ass off the Paris Fashion Week runway.
But, in terms of taking on any foreign culture, it was an ingenious line of defense- after all, beauty translates into any language superbly.
Opening each suitcase one by one, I found an unworn pair of slick black Louboutin stilettos that Brittany had gotten in Maui a few weeks earlier. Granted, they weren’t as slick as the ones on her feet now, but even I have enough decency left to refrain from stripping a corpse of her shoes on Bora Boran shores.
‘Bora Boran? Hmmm… It rings well phonetically, must be correct,’ I paused to think rummaging through Tara’s LV bag.
After all, I appreciated grammar as much as I did glamor.
Tara, obviously did not. Her LV bag was a casket, apparently were all things ugly and Versace went to die. I’m this close to running over to the coconut tree, pulling her deceased body down and shaking her back to life just to make her see how very, very wrong and offensive her sense of fashion was.
Suddenly, she was redeemed. Under all the death of her Versace was a beautiful, classic, capitonne Chanel bag. Gazing at the dyslexic ‘C’s, I found the perfect pursue around which to build the rest of my masterpiece outfit.
Lisa, may she rest in reef, had bought a gorgeous red, shiny sequence Stella McCartney dress. It was low enough in front to show off the penultimate purchase that broke my bank account, a bathykolpian frame God had intended to grant me, but left Dr. Areola to actually give me. The hem dropped off right above me knees, dangling a bit longer from behind, gracefully drawing down in the same manner as its backless back.
And, because of Dr. Areola, as mentioned above, I wouldn’t need a bra. These babies were moon-landed.
However, I did need earrings. Brittany had said Tiffany bought a pair of diamond studs from Tiffany’s for this trip.
But which one, pray tell, was her bag?
Of course! It had to be the pink one! That is—oops, was—her favorite color!
Now that I had the bag, the shoes, the dress and the earrings, I was almost ready to take on the Bora Borans.
‘Bora Boranese? Also sounds phonetically and ethnically correct given its geographical proximity to Asia,’ I pondered, almost piercing dear Greta while crossing over her.
Note to self: Louboutins not for sand.
All that was left was hair and make up, both of which could be found in my bag. Let’s see… where is it, where is it, where is—
OH MY GUCCI.
And there, in the middle of the Vivienne Westwood winter 2010 blue colored sea, I saw my toiletries bag floating at the center.
Relax, relax, relax… breathe, breathe, breathe… Pranayama… Pranayama—and like that, the wind was knocked out of me…
My Yves St. Laurent Touché Éclat! THE ECLAT IS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE OCEAN!
Calm down, look through all the bags here, there is a Touché Éclat, there MUST BE!
Bag after designer bag, there wasn’t a single Éclat.
I’d have to swim out and rescue my Éclat.
‘You’re a strong swimmer—you’ve conquered the pool of the Gramercy Park and you’ve even braved public beaches. YOU CAN DO THIS.’
Baywatch running it to the edge of the shore, I dove in, pushing against wave after wave, being thrown back several meters, having to re-swim the same distance over and over.
Eventually, I reached my bag.
Grabbing it by the handle, I tried to swim with the waves this time, the strategy proving to be successful. It was still a ways to the shore, but I was sure I would get—
‘What’s a tip of a rock doing in the middle of the sea? How odd—and why is it moving? I don’t remember seeing it swimming out—”
Stay still, stay still… NO PRANAYAMA… NO PRANAYAMA…you’re fine, you’re fabulous, as long as you are still… sharks don’t bother you if you don’t bother them… they are blind, they can’t see anything but shiny things—
LIKE THIS STELLA MCCARTNEY DRESS.