The Met Gala But Make It a Gas Station Stop

Bestie has issued the dress code. Craig has prioritized fries. I’m just here to narrate the fallout.

Readers,

Especially my newbies! Welcome. You have arrived at what can only be described as the least stable entry point possible. Truly impeccable timing on your part.

Because apparently, the exact week I decide to launch a Substack is also the exact week the boys and I will pack ourselves into a car, head to Las Vegas, check into the Tower like we’re attending a red carpet event no one invited us to, and top it all off with a Morgan Wallen concert.

Divine intervention? Poor planning? A cry for help wrapped in good lighting and iced coffee? The jury is still out.

But honestly, this is perfect.

Because for those of you hovering over that subscribe button like it might personally ruin your life, this weekend is your free trial of the experience. This is the preview. The trailer. The “are you sure you want to subscribe to this level of chaos” warning label.

Because this? This is your full introduction to what you’re signing up for: whether you choose the polite, edited version or the fully unhinged director’s cut.

Either way, it’s never calm. It’s barely controlled. And it is always, always an adventure.

Speaking of this weekend and the boys: the text has arrived.

And no, this wasn’t a casual suggestion. Not a polite little “hey, maybe think about outfits.” This was a directive. A formal decree from Bestie himself, informing me that I need to go through my closet and ensure I am dressed “appropriately” for hotel check-in on Friday.

Readers, I wish I were exaggerating.

For the newbies, please take a seat. What you’re about to witness is not a friendship. It’s a long-standing, highly specific power dynamic that has somehow survived nearly two decades.

Bestie is the planner, the payer, and the self-appointed guardian of luxury standards. If a hotel is not four or five stars with valet, marble floors, and a lobby that smells like generational wealth, he does not acknowledge its existence. Craig is the wildcard, the man who can go from charming to chaotic in under thirty seconds, and who treats every road trip like a snack-based survival mission. And I am simply here, trying to understand how I ended up in a situation where I am being dressed for check-in like it is a red carpet event.

Because this happens every single time.

And look, I love the Tower. It is top tier. Untouchable. I have stayed in incredible places and somehow it still wins. Not even the Ritz comes close. Yes, I said it.

But we have stayed there multiple times this past year, and every time I have personally witnessed people checking in wearing flip flops, basketball shorts, and “Welcome to Las Vegas” hats that were clearly purchased during a moment of weakness at a gas station.

Meanwhile, I am being prepped like I am arriving for a diplomatic summit.

So here is how this road trip plays out: I find my best dress. Bestie approves it like he is curating a gallery. Craig somehow ends up in a full suit. And then, naturally, Bestie is also in a full suit. The three of us look like we are on our way to the Met Gala, not driving three hours through the desert.

And then we stop.

At a gas station.

Because Craig needs Wendy’s.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, grounds you faster than standing in line at a random desert gas station on the road to Vegas, dressed like you are about to walk a red carpet, while Craig is ordering a large fry and a Frosty.

That is us.

That is the dynamic.

Bestie sets the standard. Craig derails the timeline. I narrate the chaos and try to keep us legally compliant.

But here is the thing.

Bestie pays.

So I do not argue. I do not question. I simply put on the dress, get in the car, and accept that at some point during this journey, I will be overdressed in a Wendy’s line looking like I took a wrong turn on my way to a gala.

Because when it comes to Bestie, you learn very quickly:

You pick your battles.

And Readers, hotel check-in attire is not one of them.