The event is being held in a posh venue in Boston, 60th floor, overlooking the whole city. The invitation has no dress code.
What to wear?
Because I have recently cleaned my closet, I have some options at hand. I choose a long, black skirt with a sheer overlay that flounces a bit at the bottom (bought it 6 years ago, never wore it). Very feminine. I pair that with a sleeveless Ralph Lauren top (worn once before) with a low cut neckline and a ruffled collar. Very "in." Very, very feminine.
I feel exposed without a jacket but that would kill the look. I choose a sheer black sweater (bought it last week). Better.
Add the pearl and diamond earrings. Lots of eye make-up (okay, concealer, shadow, eyeliner and mascara).
And my grandma shoes. If no one looks at my feet, I look good.
Come downstairs and Sam catches a glimpse of me. His mouth is open.
He says I look "tall and slim." I am on Cloud Nine.
Get to the venue. The party is on two levels. I have to climb up a steep staircase to get to the cocktails and hors d'oeuvres. A mariachi band is playing. There's a margarita bar. Empanadas, grilled lime shrimp. A Mexican theme. Who knew? The better question is "Why?".
A few acquaintances come over and comment that I'm sporting a "whole new look." I don't know whether that's a compliment or not. Sounds more like an observation.
I take a grilled shrimp. Plop. Falls right down my blouse. Big stain.
I clean up the blouse and sip my margarita. Boom! Someone slams into me and it spills on my skirt.
I've been at this g.d. party for 10 minutes and I'm a mess.
We go downstairs for dinner. The waiters serve me and one other person steamed fish. Everyone else at the table has steak. I don't recall having ordered the fish. My husband tells me he did it for me. Great. The one time he takes the initiative to fill out an rsvp card and he gets me a tasteless fish. I almost stuck my fork in his steak.
I eat half the fish. It is so bland I decide it isn't worth the effort or the points.
Endless speeches. Makes sense, after all, we are celebrating three major milestones. The people went to MIT so you can imagine how dull the speeches are.
Waiters clear the table. I feel something wet on my shoulder and hear "Sorry!" The waiter has spilled my husband's plate with the steak juice on my new sweater. Everyone hands me a cloth with water on it. I clean up but smell like meat.
The DJ strikes up some music. I go out with my husband and dance about 6-7 songs. Earth Wind and Fire, Michael Jackson. This is my music. I'm in heaven.
Around 11:30 p.m. they announce "dessert is served upstairs." Cake and fruit. I have visions of cake smeared on my skirt. Better yet, maybe someone will spill the whole coffee urn on me with the way my luck is going.
I decide to cut my losses and tell my husband to take me home.
I never knew a party could be so hazardous.
I look at my fine outfit. Every piece is marred.
I imagine if my clothes could talk, they would say, "We're never going out of the closet again. It's dangerous out there."
No comments:
Post a Comment