I’ve never really been a “Beyoncé person.” I haven’t seen the HBO documentary, I like some, but not all, of her music, and would never refer to myself as a member of something called the “Bey Hive.” In fact, my college roommate and I have gotten into borderline friendship-ending arguments over the fact that I don’t loooooove and worship “The Queen” as much as she thinks I should.
That is, until this weekend.
At 6pm on Halloween night, I had no costume and NO plans for the evening. It was turning out to be the lamest Halloween in Halloween history. My roommate and I debated staying in and “handing out candy” (since there was zero chance any trick or treaters would make the trek to our 5th floor walkup, we really meant “staying in and eating candy we pretended to have bought for kids”) but quickly realized we were young, fun and actinglike big ol’ losers, (and that there were no new chick flicks on Netflix). We needed to get off the couch, figure out costumes and turn things around. Fast.
I’ve had terrible costumes in the past and still had fun Halloweens in the past, so expectations were low when we ventured out in the cold to one of the creepy kiosks on St. Marks. I figured I would just buy some (flea-ridden) wig. throw on a slutty black dress and make something up. But then, I saw the most amazing wig on the PLANET, and was utterly inspired.
A quick trip to American Apparel to buy $90 worth of gold lamé spandex that I’ll “totallllllly wear again” (yet another Halloween when I “didn’t want to spend money on a costume,” so I waited until the last minute and screwed myself.) and I was ready to be FOXXY CLEOPATRA, Beyoncé’s character from Austin Powers: Goldmember.
I got home, covered myself in baby oil (my mom used to be obsessed with the fact that Beyoncé uses baby oil to moisturize, so I figured I would try it) and a ton gold eye/lip/face makeup, and put on my costume.
I’ll admit it: I’d been having a very fat-feeling, why-is-mercury-still-in-retrograde-and-messing-up-my-life, un-confident month (come on you guys, it happens to the best of us); until I put on the costume. I was a whole new woman. I stood alone in my room for a solid 15 minutes taking selfies (and sending them to cute boys) and feeling freaking amazing about myself for the first time in a while.
The costume made me feel like I could do literally anything, so the night started to fall into place.
First, I decided that it would be totally acceptable for me to go to a party alone, where I didn’t really know anyone. So I went, talked to strangers, drank vodka/redbulls and shamelessly flirted with cute boys I knew I’d never see again. “Zoë” wouldn’t do that (ok, I’d probably still drink the vodka), but Beyoncé totally would.
I also happened to run into dickpic guy on the way out (AGAIN!!!!!!!!!) and thought the universe might be trying to push us together, so considered going with him to a party uptown, but realized Beyoncé would never give someone who showed her a picture of his penis on a first date a second chance, so I left. (Let’s be honest— Zoë probably would)
I then walked (still completely alone) to a bar 10 blocks away, and have never in my life felt like such a badass hottie. I was winking at strangers, people were high-fiving me all over the place and SIX different groups asked to take my picture.
I wasn’t walking, I was full on strutting. In 7-inch heels, mind you.
I got to the bar, immediately cut the line (after the bouncer told me I needed to “pull up my top because my boobs were out” …whoops) and danced my bootylicious little gold butt off with my college friends for hours.
Later on in the night, I went to meet a friend (ok, a boy.) at TAO Downtown, once again completely alone. As someone who hasn’t been to a nightclub since 2008 (it was a girl from a summer program’s 18th birthday at Tenjune, naturally) I wasn’t at all sure of what I was getting myself into, but had been drinking for hours and it seemed like a good idea.
I walked (strutted) to the door, and the bouncer let me in immediately. It was the second time that night that I was allowed to cut the line, which hasn’t happened since college (and that was only because we bullied one of our friends into going on a date with a bouncer so we could have line-cutting rites for life). It felt fucking awesome.
When I got inside, I couldn’t find my “friend,” so instead spent the night dancing with strangers and making “friends” with people who had tables. After all, who doesn’t want Beyoncé at their table? (“Zoë” hasn’t been at a table since 2010…)
My last memory (which must have been around 5am— thanks, Daylight Savings) is dirty-dancing with a hottie to “Trap Queen” whilst profusely sweating and swinging my wig over my head. Let met tell you: it takes a confident (or really, really drunk) woman to behave like that and still thinks she’s sexy.
The next day, it was horribly depressing to go back to being normal me after being Beyoncé for the night. After 9 hours in an afro and head-to-toe gold lamé spandex, I can honestly say I know what Queen Bey is talking about when she says “I’m feelin myself.” If only I hadn’t lost my wig at the nightclub.