The Devil Throws Away Prada
I was beyond excited as I've been waiting to see my boyfriend, Sam Hunt, perform live for months and months.
After a frustrating Uber ride out to the Stadium (and we thought Atlanta traffic was bad), we hopped out of the car and began to weave our way through Patriot's Place (basically an outdoor mall).
As we wandered around looking for the Will Call window, a security officer approached us with clear plastic bags and offered us one.
YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO BRING YOUR PURSE IN, MA'AM. YOU'LL HAVE TO LEAVE IT IN YOUR CAR.
And then the memories flooded back...FALCONS GAME. COLD AS HELL. WALKING BACK TO CAR BECAUSE PURSE DIDN'T FIT NFL REQUIREMENTS OF BEING CLEAR OR THE SIZE OF A SUPER-PLUS TAMPON.
I began to panic, as we had no car. And I had a Prada, my go-to, nylon, cross body bag that is basically melded to my body.
BUT WE TOOK AN UBER!
Time stood still. Blood pumped through my ears. In slow-mo, with spit forming around the corners of his mouth, the security guard said to me:
YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO THROW IT OUT, THEN, MA'AM. (But in a crazy Boston accent)
I 'bout fainted. I could hear a chorus of famous Italian designers losing their minds over this blasphemous statement.
Mr. Yoy led me away and immediately started brainstorming. This is why I keep him around. He is:
Our first shot through security, we origami folded dear Prada up and shoved it way down into the bottom of the plastic bag. On top went my wallet, Wet Ones, four different types of lip gloss (it's SAM HUNT, YO), and Advil.
The guard took his pokey stick and went through my clear plastic bag. He asked me to open my wallet. I complied. For a moment, I thought we had this. Then he found Prada.
WHAT'S THIS? POKE! POKE! POKE! A BAG? A PURSE? YOU'LL HAVE TO THROW IT OUT!
We walked away in defeat. I could feel my neck getting all red and splotchy. My heart pounded. I will get arrested trying to get my purse into this flipping concert.
We walked into the stadium shop to formulate our next plan. I made Mr. Yoy call his law partner to see if we could go in through the VIP entrance, where you can basically bring in an uzi on your shoulder and ain't nobody going to say anything. No answer.
In my clear plastic bag, I had a fresh pack of the Wet Ones Big. I like to thoroughly wipe down the airplane area I am sitting in. I know I look insane doing it, but rhinovirus don't care.
WHAT IF WE EMPTY OUT ALL THE WET ONE WIPES AND I FOLD PRADA UP AND SHOVE IT IN THE CASE AND THEN COVER WITH ONE WET WIPE?
At this point, it's all we had. Mr. Yoy went into the men's bathroom where he could get some privacy, and worked his magic.
I stood outside the bathroom, sweating and watching like the sketchiest human ever. A policeman carrying a major gun walked in.
SH*T, MY FAMILY IS GOING TO GET BLOWN APART BECAUSE OF THIS HANDBAG.
Mr. Yoy walked out of the bathroom with a big, sh*t eating grin on his face. We shoved the Wet Ones/Prada down to the bottom of our clear plastic bag. Then went the rest of my stuff and finally my wallet.
We found a new entrance and walked up. I was so nervous. The guard looked into the bag briefly and gave me the all clear.
I felt like belting out notes a la The Little Mermaid.
I was going to be able to keep my Prada bag and see Sam Hunt.
With a drink in hand, we made it backstage, where I retold our story to Mr. Yoy's partner and his wife. They listened and watched in horror as I unfolded Prada from the Wet Ones sleeve. They took me over to the VIP entrance and got me one of these:
And then I knew that Prada (and the Yoys) were finally safe.