That One Time I Got Kicked Out of the Met…

28 May That One Time I Got Kicked Out of the Met…

I went to the Met to see the new Punk: Chaos to Couture exhibit on Sunday. I was really excited, I dressed in my version of punk and headed to meet some new and old friends to indulge in the ultimate New York fare. An afternoon at the Met.

Do you guys watch The Mindy Project? There is this scene when Mindy is dating this guy–played by real life bestie BJ Novak–and he’s like I like to keep my museum pins on, just to show people how cultured I am. I was looking forward to doing just that.

We wait in the long line (I naively thought all of New York would be in the Hamptons or Montauk and my friends and I would have the exhibit to ourselves). We finally make it to the exhibit after asking 5 people wearing ‘Ask Me’ shirts, who looked like they didn’t really want us to ask them anything, actually, for directions.

It was everything I thought it would be.

No, it was better. There was Alexander McQueen, Burberry, and Vivienne Westwood. It was raunchy, mischievous, and a little bit dirty. Too good not to Instagram. I quickly whip out my phone a snap a few pictures, other people had their phones out, too, so clearly this rule was just a formality, I thought.

False.

One of the girls I was with, a fashion design student with an internship at Kleinfeld, snapped a couple pictures, perhaps to sketch afterward? A lady next to use, legit scolded her, “They said no pictures. Multiple. Times.” Well, excuuuuse us. We enter a room with studded Burberry peplum jackets, and just too much awesomeness not to document.

“I just don’t want to see you with your phone out, said a security when he walked past me.” Cool, you won’t, I thought. Here’s where I got caught up: these two girls were standing beside me looking at another Burberry studded look. “I feel like I need this picture,” I found myself saying out loud. “Take it, we’ll cover you,” one of the girls said.

… You see where this is going.

I snap the picture and drop my phone into my pocket and turn around, satisfied. I lock eyes with the security guard, he looks like he’s about to walk past me. “All he said was he didn’t want to see my phone and it’s away, sooo, I’m good,” I think to myself.

Wrong.

“You,” the fake cop said. “Get out. I told you I didn’t want to see anything. Get out.” Now, I’ve never been kicked out of anything, much less a classy place like the Met. I walk out dejectedly, hanging my head. Embarrassed as heck. Another friend walks out with me and says that she’ll go back and try to reason with the fake cop. I find out while standing in room two of the exhibit, that there are 7 total and to get to the fourth, I have to walk past the fake cop that kicked me out.

Not happenin’.

He won’t let me back in, either. He got really upset when my friend tried to reason with him, so I know it wasn’t personal. Wrong place, wrong time. “…But she’s a fashion blogger, sir,” was her justification. Nope, homeboy was not having it.

So she collected our other friend, and I continued to shuffle out. Still so embarrassed. So much for my ultimate New York outing. My friends tried to make me feel better, “you stuck it to the man!” “You brought the punk to the couture,” they told me.

All was not lost though, we went to see the Impressionism, Fashion and Modernity exhibit, it was hot and stinky, and at this point we needed caffeine so we headed in search of nourishment and coffee.

When I taken the last bite of my pancakes topped with butter and strawberries, I had all the comebacks in the world. “Really? REALLY? You single me out of EVERYONE with their phone out?! You don’t know if I paid the full suggested admission or not!”

I didn’t but still.

We continued to laugh about me getting kicked out, and now, all of the comebacks I had, as we roamed all over Central Park. I can’t believe that I can walk to Central Park from my apartment. Or the Met, which, best believe, I’ll be revisiting that exhibit to see rooms four through seven.

Just hope that fake cop isn’t there. Or that my name isn’t on some list on banned patrons. Not that it matters (it really does, though) because, guise, I’m Channing in the City!