As it turns out, I am a monster.
I sat too close to the table you should be 4 inches away, apparently for easier access to the spread of hummus and cheese, which I learned I was not to etiquette until after I had placed it on the correct section of my plate bottom right is for spreads and top left is for refuse like pits and cheese rinds. I dropped an olive, sliced the Classes at the wrong angle, and nearly knocked over my water glass while taking furious notes.
Clearly, my upbringing in a cereal-for-dinner sort of household had not prepared me for this. I had enrolled myself in the course in an effort to determine whether or not I really could be saved from my millennial self by way of finishing school which, as a something native New Yorker, was allegedly catered specifically to me. Adult choice old fatties nude venue was obvious given the subject matter: In the grand scheme of New York, The Plaza is high-society manifest.
Once the wine had been poured, we made our perfunctory introductions around the table. I shook hands with the girl to my left, who was dressed in a neat black cocktail dress and seemed to delicately hold my hand for a brief moment rather than actually shake it.
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I nodded courteously, envisioning my own mother, who was most likely at home in Brooklyn, eating Chinese takeout directly from the container.
I watched, intrigued, as the mystery woman took a sip of her wine, leaving her glass curiously unmarked in spite of the dark red lipstick she wore. Like the plaza itself, the patrons were stiff-backed, well-polished, and subdued.