Knowing When (Not) to Quit

Last Sunday, I quit on a friendship that at one point, I thought I could never live without.

But this post is not about that.

Sometimes, when you have a million events going on in a Lower West Side studio house, incorporating a million different PR firms to accompany said studio house’s own PR department, lists get lost. Lists don’t send. Lists send, but don’t actually get sent. And as any reporter, frequent New York club-goer, and fashion affection-ado will have you know: lists are life.

There’s always a bout of anxiety when the PR flips through their lists, looking for your name, even though you know you are on it. In my case, it’s a double bout because ever since middle school, it was always a struggle to get Pangilinan spelled correctly (forget pronunciation).

So when mine doesn’t show up, I give my bosses’.

No luck either.

With the most well-faked (but still noticeably fake) apologetic no, the gatekeeper and her clipboard send me off.

Eventually, I manage to get an audience with a higher-up who alerts me of my unfortunate situation. He mentions something about a woman in polkadots, but I am so frustrated and embarrassed, I don’t really hear him.

With no luck backstage and no guarantee that I’ll even be allowed in for the show, I run back to the main entrance hopping from line to line, waiting 15 minutes each time only to find out that my name is not on any of their lists either. 30 minutes elapse into an hour, and an hour into two hours.

I text my boss a play by play of the night.

I tell her I won’t quit without a fight.

An absurd half promise.

I’m not really much of a fighter.

I can’t even fight to save a friendship.

My boss texts me back, compiling names of friends, names of friends of friends, phone numbers of people with Hollywood names like Sydney Stern or Damon Fitzpatrick. In the mess of messages, a glimmer of hope: the very person I’m supposed to interview texts me, telling me he can get me in.

Of course, at this point I’m so lost in a mosh pit of New York’s finest in well-treated leather leggings and spiked Jeffrey Campbells, there is no real way to physically get me in. (Name on list and subsequent wristband still a requirement.) What a joke. The fabulous and fashionable that surround me are my kindred unfortunate-souls, looking at every list, as I do, hoping that their name is on it.

It’s 10 minutes over showtime.

I checked over the last possible list.

My name is not on it.

…And then, like a dove in a flock of confused city pigeons, I see the woman in polkadots.

From the instant that I saw her standing in the middle of that crowded lobby, I felt like I understood destiny and opportunity. I felt like I knew how life worked; life was a test of patience and persistence; a game of hide and seek with a stand out figurehead (a god, a soulmate, a fashionista). I passed that day with flying colors. I persevered the roller-coaster of should I stay or should I go now. And at the same time, despite the contradiction to my feeling of accomplishment, I also felt that, in the grand scheme of things, this night was just meant to be.

It totally doesn’t make sense. But regardless of the divine cosmic powers behind my night, fact is I didn’t quit and it paid off. Not only did I get that interview, I got a couple of free beers, a champagne shower with sexy male models dressed in Rochambeau, a reunion with some guys I met at my cousin’s wedding in Mexico last fall, and a sweet conversation with a gorgeous, (and knowing my luck, probably) gay, do-it-all beautician slash DJ.

That day, last Sunday, was my first backstage interview ever, and my name was not on the list. In a back and forth process that felt similar to the agony of figuring out how to deal with a friend who was no longer really a friend, I went back and forth in my mind between wanting to get the job done and wanting to go home. I could come out strong and resourceful, or leave as just another poor victim of circumstance.

I’ve been using my career to prop myself strongly over the bullshit I’ve been dealing with, so the last thing I wanted to do was go home empty handed. But despite my stubborn pride, I had, at one point, walked out of Milk Studios and sat in a defeated heap on the tiny bench at the small coffee shop next door.

I considered quitting, and it was a really damn strong consideration.

So why didn’t I do it?

There were two phrases that continuously played in my mind:

“If you look like you belong, you belong.”

My best friend told me this four years ago at the BCBG Ready to Wear Fall/Winter 2010 Fashion Show. There we were, dressed to impress, two 15 year-old girls from Queens in $20 Forever 21 dresses, rubbing elbows with the fabulous. We weren’t quite Ugly Betty, but from then on, there was an importance to image and attitude that I would never forget.

The other phrase:

“You are media. You were invited to come. You are meant to be there. (Politely) Don’t take no for an answer.”

Not only was it important to fake-it-till-I-made-it, it was important for me to realize that I had every right to be there. I mattered because I was sent there, invited there to do something. This wasn’t just another opportunity to compensate my shit love life with really cool Instagram pictures, really cool life experiences and resume bullet points. This was an opportunity that 15 year-old me standing in that tent in Bryant Park almost five years ago had been dreaming of.

This wasn’t a way to kick it to someone. This was my dream.

Through this adventure, I really had no idea whether or not I should quit. But I was certain as I sat in that coffee house, as I took the blow of disappointment at the end of each line, each apologetic conversation, that I had it in me to do more. I belonged there. I wanted to be there.

And there I was.