I was invited to a swanky function last week. This is not my “norm,” but it IS my “every so often.” I used to LOVE swanky functions. But I used to network at them for film, writing, music, and improv gigs. I don’t do as much of that stuff in my current life, so an entire level of the appeal has dissipated.
The truth is, I was raised in the “Pretty Woman” era. We younglings of the late 80’s/early 90’s still held to the fantasy of the Cinderella Effect – where a simple girl could put on a fancy dress, sweep her hair into a romantic updo and with just a touch of blush, lipstick and mascara, a handsome “prince” across a crowded room would “fly to her side and make her (his) own…”
Yes – for the slightly awkward, uncoupled young woman of my generation, the opportunity to dress up fancy for a night, wear shoes that would DEMAND a chiropractic visit in the coming week, and strut your stuff in a room full of well-dressed/well-monied strangers was the stuff of fairy tales.
But it’s been *cough cough* a “few” years.
Still – who was I to turn down a “free” meal and a chance to bid on silent auction items I couldn’t really afford??? I mean – it WAS for a good cause.
I was telling a coworker hours before the event, that I planned to go to Ross (Dress 4 Less) to find something for banquet. Instead, she talked me into checking out our organization’s rummage sale items first.
And I saw it. The dress I KNEW I needed in my life. The straps were too long, but my tenacious coworker convinced me that I’d be able to take them up in time for the event. Rummage sale be d@mned – this dress still had tags and that little baggy with the extra beads attached. So I capitulated. I had to run out to grab a sewing kit because I use mine SO often that I couldn’t find it… and what do you know – the place I was shopping at was right next to a nail salon – so why not???
Of course, each thing I did to get ready that night was met with my inner monologue asking me, “What in tarnation do you think you’re doing??? This kind of silliness is NOT for single women your age. It’s for single women 15 – 25 years younger than you. It’s for wealthy widows and well-connected couples. But YOU???”
By the time I finally found the event entrance and parking I was ‘fashionably’ late. Check-in was still set up – so I wasn’t “a-holishly” late at least!
But I felt so self-conscious. What did I think I was doing? My shiny cranberry nails, my beaded headband that matched the beads on my dress, the flowy chiffon that that just trailed behind me as I walked. I felt ridiculous. But it was too late. I was there. I’d tipped the manicurist a $10 bill for crummy sake, so I might as well get my money’s worth.
And there it was – as I entered the room, “a song – played on a solo saxophone…” S’rsly. The music for that evening was a sax player playing to some backing tracks and he just happened to be playing “Lady In Red.”
No. My lovely empire-waisted, chiffon-layered gown with beaded straps and bust was NOT red. I’ve been kinda sheepish about wearing red for most of my adult life thanks to my mom telling me once when I was trying on prom dresses that she “always thought red made blondes look cheap.”
But one night, in my much, much younger years, I went on a perfect date with a perfect gentleman from my first period Participatory Government class. We talked about going dancing, but there were no “teen dance joints” in our tiny little rural community. However, as he was driving me home, Lady In Red came on the car radio and he stopped in the middle of an intersection, ran around the car, pulled me out of the passenger side, cranked up the volume and we danced, in the middle of an empty country road, in lightly misting rain to Lady In Red.
It remains one of the most perfect memories from my adolescence.
The saxophonist was no doubt playing it for any number of lovely younger ladies at the event in stunning red gowns hugging them in all the right places. But I smiled because inside, I knew he was playing it just for me. He just didn’t know it.
That song took my hand and led me through the banquet hall with my shoulders back, head held high (my Pre-K ballet teacher would have been so proud) and chiffon trailing wantonly behind me. I glided around the room to greet the guests I knew and make polite small talk with people my friends introduced me to.
Complete strangers approached me through the night fawning on my rummage sale find – I mean – my gown – and just piling on the nicest compliments imaginable.
I’m not delusional. I’m past my prime like day-old bread. But sometimes the comfort of an old familiar song can work more magic than a fairy Godmother and a pair of glass slippers combined. Perhaps the song opened a small window in space and time to bring back that fearless, optimistic, younger version of me that felt adored and special, dancing in the middle of country road like something out of a frikkin’ Hallmark movie (which didn’t even exist in the Hallmark Channel context yet.)
No – I didn’t meet Mr. Right, Mr. Right Now, or Mr. Maybe – Let’s Do Lunch Next Week And Find Out. I just spent a lovely night with friends, coworkers and “Hometown Elites” feeling like a million bucks. And “I never will forget the way” I felt that night…
Male texting you:
Excellent writing. Your style in writing this event had me convinced. I’d say you are in your prime. Thank you.
Love that you found the dress at the church rummage sale! Music can transport us back in time. My high school ended every dance with that impossible to dance to song. The last dance...