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I stared at the contents of my closet in frustration. Should I go with the clichéd tight jeans and sexy top combo, or should I glam it up a bit with a dress? And if I did go the dress route, what sort of shoes should I wear? Boots? Strappy sandals? Those really uncomfortable high heels that give me blisters so severe my pedicurist grimaces when she has to remove them? I picked up my cell phone and called my friend for advice.
“What are you wearing tonight?” I demanded as soon as she answered. “I don’t know yet – maybe jeans, maybe a wrap dress. I haven’t really thought about it.” She responded nonchalantly. She hadn’t thought about it? Ever since she’d invited me to the Friday Night Lights’ party celebrating their pick-up for a third season, I’d been mentally canvassing my wardrobe to come up with the perfect outfit that would help me blend in with all the exceedingly gorgeous cast members. In my mind, the clothes I wore that night could potentially impact the rest of my life. What if Tim Riggins took one look at me in my fabulous grey form-fitting dress and fell immediately, helmet-over-cleats in love with me? It could totally happen! Just look at George Clooney and Nicholas Cage! Yes, I was definitely going with the dress. And my sexy brown flat boots. (Because actors are short.) Approximately forty-five minutes later, I strutted my way across Wilshire Blvd. and approached the bouncer at the door of O’Brien’s Irish Pub in Santa Monica. I glanced at the clock on my cell phone. It was only 9:00, but the party had started at 8:00 – where was the line? Where was the list? And where were the paparazzi? What kind of Hollywood party was this? “Which company are you with?” The bored-looking bouncer asked me. “Oh… err... no company. I’m just a friend of someone who works at NUTS.” I stammered, suddenly panicked that he would deny me entrance until my friend arrived to vouch that I wasn’t a crazy person who just wanted to gape at Kyle Chandler and pet Tim Riggins hair. “ID?” He asked, completely non-pulsed by the nobidiness that oozed from my visible pores. I extracted my embarrassingly old diver’s license, he gave it a quick once over and then gestured me inside. My stomach swirled with anticipation. This was it! I was here! A big fancy schmancy TV party! My college friends back in boring old Chicago were going to be totally jealous! My eager starstruck eyes glistened at the sight of a denim-clad Minka Kelly who was casually perched on a stool at the bar. She looked oddly normal as she talked quietly to average-looking people I didn’t recognize. Where was her entourage? Or rebound boyfriend, commissioned to make John Mayer jealous? C’mon Minka, give me something to tell my college roommate about! Slightly bummed, I turned my attention away from the none-event of Minka sitting at the bar, and craned my neck for more celebrities. Oh oh! There was Kyle Chandler and Connie Briton chatting by the door! This was definitely exciting! Did I smell a scandal? A little off-screen romance, perhaps? I scrutinized their body language for tell-tale signs of an elicit affair. Hmmm… nothing. They were just… talking. Like friends. And drinking pints of beer? That wasn’t chic. That wasn’t scandalous! That was ordinary bar behavior. As I looked around the completely unswanky, nondescript pub, I started to get a sneaking suspicion that something was amiss. Was US Weekly right? Are celebrities really just like us? After an hour-and-a-half of engaging in my typical post-collegiate night out rituals (i.e. nursing a single drink and sitting around a table talking with friends and no one else), I said goodbye to my group and goodbye to my fantastical visions of a Hollywood party. As I drove home, I couldn’t help but feel struck by the irony of my evening. The reason I love Friday Night Lights is because it is an accurate depiction of real life that showcases ordinary (albeit very attractive) people doing and saying ordinary things. It was fitting that their Season 3 celebratory party would reflect that same sense of reality. While it would have been nice if my reality that night had included a little lip-locking action with Tim Riggins (I still refuse to call him by his real name, Taylor Kitsch), it was sort of nice to know that I don’t necessarily need a tight dress or sexy boots to fit in with the Friday Night Lighters. All I need is a pint of beer, a group of good friends to huddle with and an embarrassing photo ID proving that I’m over 21.
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