As I pull past the series of luxury cars perfectly arranged in a semi-circle at the main entrance of the drive, a crisp and dutiful valet approaches my car with a practiced but genuine smile. He’s no stranger to what I’m about to do and I pretend not to notice him quickly scan the condition of my vehicle. It’s mechanically sound but cosmetically challenged with blistered paint fading off the hood, two large cracks in the roof glass, a busted fog light, check engine light illuminated, no radio and tires so dangerously worn down that the metal wires are showing.

*It’s a Land Rover, Caitlin, calm down…*

I notice his eyes briefly flicker with recognition that my aging SUV is a bit out of character from what he’s accustomed to but then they land back on me, an average middle-aged blonde mom at the wheel – nice and normal- so he immediately resumes his professional indifference.

*Thank you,* I tell him in my mind as I roll down the window.

“Are you a member?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

*Nope* my eyes smiled back but my mouth shaped itself around a well-rehearsed lie.

“Yes, Vurrola, 1208.”

Without hesitation, he promptly opens my door, as if it were never in doubt.

Encouraged by the subtle understanding of this complicit valet guy who was politely going along with my lie, I hand over my single dirty key fob with microchip buttons exposed and casually mention not to worry about locking it, because it doesn’t lock, so he needn’t try.

As we switch places, I briefly remind myself not to care about the now painfully obvious interior dysfunction of my car. I step onto the pavement, feigning a sense of belonging—only for my newly found confidence to shatter immediately upon noticing the pristine condition of the two women on my left.  They were perfect and stylish and so well groomed that not a single strand of hair appeared out of place.

*Don’t rich people ever dirty?* I asked myself to the air.

I unconsciously start to smooth down and adjust my felt-pretty dress, suddenly hyper-aware of how inadequate it feels. I anxiously pick up the pace to get through this self-imposed humiliation ritual as quickly as possible. I enter the grand facade of the lobby on a mission, unimpressed and deliberately make eye contact with no one under the pretense that it might help me fit in, go unnoticed or both.
*This is what you get for having rich friends* I scold myself.

After a few detours around dining rooms and an awkward u-turn at the entrance of a private event filled with what appeared to be a single large Persian family surrounded by shopping bags, I shuffle my way down the carpeted stairs, slip through the glass-paneled doors and emerge like a successful prison break into a lush green courtyard where they’re draping fabric from 30 feet in the air in preparation for some sort of opulent wedding later in the evening.

It’s in this moment of new felt freedom and pure anonymity that I’m surrounded by enough blue-collar workers to pause and send off a text to my friend to announce that I made it through the trials of hell and had successfully snuck into heaven – ‘Your membership is going to get flagged because of me, but I’m here. Send one of the kids to come let me into the pool.’