Oh, I will have stories to tell about the Big Gala—including serendipitous seating next to a delightful woman I wished to tuck into my pocket and take home with me, except that I didn’t have any pockets so I had to leave her there—but they will have to wait, for the moment.
And because all you really care about is what I wore and how I did my hair, that’s fine with you. Right? Right. Who cares about the PEOPLE and the stuff they SAID or the fact that the molten chocolate raspberry something-or-other dessert was actually so rich I was unable to finish it (a first in my history with chocolate)? You want to see the SHOES!
Fine. You can see the shoes. And the dress. And even sort of see the long flowy satin piece that comes out the back. And—of course—proof that I’ve both bought a flat iron and have been watching entirely too much Mad Men can be found in the hair.
But don’t worry—despite how surprisingly well I clean up, I’m still me. I managed to throw my knife on the floor during dinner (in the middle of a conversation, too) when I’d had less than a glass of wine, and during the Very Serious Presentation of the official induction of some people into some fellowship, I suggested to the aforementioned lovely lady seated beside me that the entire spectacle would be much more entertaining if, instead of giving medals, they were branding the inductees. “Congratulations, and welcome to the fellowship!” *SSSSSSSSSSS*”
Hey, at least my hair looked damn good.