Page 8

Lizzie

Blippi is the last person you want to see in the midst of a day-drunk hangover. I curse myself for having two Bloody Marys on the plane as I cross through the immaculate lobby of the Sensoria Hotel only to be greeted by every parent’s least favorite YouTube star.

It takes me a beat to realize that Blippi is a sponsor of this shindig and he, or someone who bears an intense likeness to him, is here for the content exposure offered by a thousand influencer mothers.

As I rummage through my bag looking for a stray Advil, he’s miming throwing a rope in the air and lassoing me around the waist. I’ve never wanted to punch a human being in the face more.

I sidestep him to get to the check-in desk, passing through a massive arch that spells Mombomb in hundreds of balloons arranged in a rainbow pattern.

Both Blippi and the blatant branding are a direct contrast to the minimalist design of the lobby with its natural stone and wood and the massive windows offering views of the surrounding canyons.

Blippi persists. He mimes taking out my phone and getting a selfie together. I shake my head no as I try to hand my driver’s license to the woman behind the check-in counter, who looks at Blippi with similar ire.

“Go away. Scram,” she hisses so quietly no one but the three of us can hear. I love her.

Check-in is swift. Bex has taken care of everything, which I’m grateful for.

The magazine’s meager budget could possibly have swung an economy flight, but not these insanely expensive hotel rooms. All I want to do is get upstairs and take a hot shower, maybe a bath.

I’m not scheduled to meet Bex, who I should practice calling Rebecca, until the morning and my interest in attending tonight’s “get to know you” welcome circle is fairly low.

I should be more into all this, given that influencing is the next frontier of journalism and all that, but despite the allure of the money, the very thought of turning myself into a personal brand continues to make me want to swallow glass.

I tried to pinpoint it while sipping my second Bloody Mary on the plane.

Why not join in? Make that money? Get it, girl?

I think it’s because I don’t want my career to be all about me.

Most days I’m bored of myself. Why would anyone else find me even remotely entertaining?

What would I say or do to perform for an audience?

The young woman behind the counter clears her throat and I look up, assuming she’s warning me about another Blippi encounter. I brace myself.

“Before you go to your room you’ll need to check in for the conference.

Everyone needs a wristband to be on the property this week.

” She holds up her own wrist to show a pink rubber bracelet that clearly reads Staff .

“The conference rented the whole space and they’re big on security so if you could check in with them that would be great.

Straight down the hallway and in front of the grand ballroom. You can just leave your bag with me.”

The energy in the hotel is electric. The space is entirely filled with women, not a man in sight. I stroll down the short hallway to the check-in desk, where I’m greeted by the same black-clad, clipboard-carrying assistants I’ve seen thousands of times at thousands of event check-ins.

“You’re Lizzie Matthews,” one of them announces to me as I approach.

“I am,” I agree, startled until I look down and see that her clipboard has pictures of attendees and their estimated check-in times on it. Whoever runs this thing has the efficiency of the Swiss guard.

“Okay, so you’re press, which means you get an orange band and that will let you into the greenroom for interviews before all of the panels.

There are a few sessions that are creator only so that everyone has a safe space, but the orange band will get you into most everything. I also have a badge for you.”

She hands me a standard conference badge on a lanyard, also with my picture on it, and my Instagram handle.

Thank god it doesn’t have my follower count.

I wonder if in addition to the color-coded bracelets tied to job functions there are also tiers of follower count in different shades.

Turquoise for ten thousand, magenta for fifty thousand, all the colors of the rainbow for a million plus. You are a queen.

“And your welcome bag.” She hands me a reusable canvas tote with Mombomb embroidered on the side along with my initials. Classy. I don’t dig through it, but I can see it’s packed with stuff. T-shirts, vitamins, skincare samples, period panties, which I am vaguely excited about.

A line is forming behind me so I start to hustle away, but one of the check-in ladies stands.

“Let me give you a quick tour,” she says cheerfully, and links her arm through mine. I change my mind. These young women are the opposite of the clipboard girls who police Fashion Week check-in, the ones who usually sneer and evade eye contact unless you’re Zendaya or RuPaul.

She takes me toward what looks like a wall of glass but is actually a door that slowly swings open as we approach.

There’s a bar with white stone firepits and lounge chairs draped in gauzy blankets in an abundance of muted tones. Exotic plants mix with sago palms and robust lavender bushes.

“Notice the feminine lightness of the details.”

I try hard to notice. I pet a blanket.

“It’s baby alpaca,” she whispers. “This way.”

I’m beckoned toward what appears to be a modern version of a swinging rope bridge.

I gasp in terror as I glance down at the chasm below, my heart hammering, toes curling over the tops of my flip-flops.

I can’t take a full breath. We appear to be on top of a gorge with at least a thirty-foot drop or maybe more.

Beneath my quivering legs is a canyon of jagged rocks so sharp they could pierce right through the unlucky soul who slips from these wooden planks.

“The property embraces every bit of the natural landscape here, offering a modern twist on old-school glamour and adventure,” my guide informs me.

“This bridge was first constructed by the original owner, a Spanish countess at the turn of the century. Of course since then it’s been modified and updated with the latest in safety protocols and materials. This way to the pool,” she beckons.

Heights terrify me. I gasp and stutter, grasping the thick rope railings with my fingers tensed into tiny lobster claws, but somehow I manage to cross the ten yards of swinging bridge without having to resort to crawling on my hands and knees.

I’m woozy and trembling by the time I’m back on solid ground.

“The pool here is built directly into the mesa,” I am told as we approach the next patio. “If you take any photos or videos out here we ask that you tag the Sensoria and also hashtag #MesaPool. They’ve been very generous with us and we want to give back.”

She says this in the same tone Sally Struthers once used to encourage everyone to send money for starving children.

What she refers to as the mesa is a startling rock formation jutting out of the navy-blue water that stretches to the edge of a concrete expanse and then seems to fall off directly into the desert.

The pool is crowded with well-appointed ladies, many of them in oversized straw hats.

I see faces I recognize, way more than I expected, and it’s almost jarring to see them in person.

There’s my favorite bento box lunch influencer.

Five things in five minutes is her mantra.

If you are making lunch for six minutes, it is absolutely taking too long, she insists.

She somehow manages to make gorgeous lunches using only leftovers.

And the smoothie lady. I have to restrain myself from asking how exactly she gets the rainbow layers of the banana-berry smoothie so perfect when mine looks like brown sludge.

She’s talking to this one pelvic-floor trainer who I’ve been following since Ollie was born.

I can’t look her in the eye. Not after what we’ve been through virtually together.

Over there is the woman who meticulously organizes closets and pantries.

I honestly can’t get enough of her. I watch her videos, rapt with envy, and every time I’m done, I swear I will organize just one junk drawer, just one.

Her obliteration of clutter is so strangely soothing that I feel like I know her intimately, like she’s a friend I can just walk up to and say, “Do you really think I could do a capsule wardrobe?” It sort of reminds me of the time that I covered the Golden Globes for the magazine and I found myself in a room filled with celebrities all talking to other celebrities like they’d been best friends since high school.

Taylor Swift was sharing a piece of chocolate cake with Naomi Watts.

Ryan Gosling handed Ryan Reynolds some ChapStick.

None of it felt real. I had awkwardly tried to fist-bump Meryl Streep before I interviewed her as she munched a chicken satay skewer.

She only nodded at me in return, my fist hanging in the air like a lost balloon at a birthday party.

I will not fist-bump anyone at this pool.

When my phone buzzes my heart flutters with anticipation. Bex?