This blog is not just about gray hair but about the whole mid-life experience, and somewhere in this story there’s a nugget of wisdom about this journey we’re on. It’s about my first little black dress.
You may not know that I was raised by wolves. Honestly, I didn’t even learn to hold a fork properly until I was 19 years old. My father slept in a camper parked in the backyard. Whatever social skills I have I learned as an adult.
Until very recently, I didn’t even own anything that could be worn to a black tie event, or cocktails for that matter. My idea of a good time is hanging out with a few friends and pulling longnecks out of a bathtub filled with ice. But I am invited to dressy events from time to time, and I finally purchased a little black dress for the occasion. A company party for senior leaders and their significant others.
Social scenes have a way of unraveling my confidence, but I was counting on the dress for support. It’s a great dress. Got lots of compliments as we mingled during cocktail hour. I was worried that I would feel like a little girl playing dress up – you know, like it wasn’t the real me. Except it did feel like the real me, and I was enjoying the moment.
Now, this was a big party. About 500 people. Sit down dinner. Your name tag had a number on the back, and that was your table – an attempt to get people mixed up instead of hanging out with their office mates. We were the first ones to arrive at our table.
People started pouring in through the doors, finding their tables, getting situated. We were still the only ones at our table. The lights dimmed, and we were still the only ones at our table. I was starting to have a Carrie moment – like the popular girls played a huge trick on me. Waiting for the pig blood to drop. My husband is like, get over it, this is funny. He’s already engineering ways to raid the other salads, perhaps snatch some of the pre-poured wine.
I am feeling awkward. I mean, what is this? A few people wander over to make jokes and ask what we did to run everyone off. I squeeze out a smile and a ha. The finance guy dropped by to say that the statistical probability of all the no-shows being at one table defies the imagination.
Finally, the chief party planner comes over to apologize and see if we can move to a new table. But by now salads are being pulled, entrees are on the way. She says, okay, we’ll come to you! She grabs some of the volunteers, plus the big guy from security, and soon the table is filled with people laughing and chatting.
Me, in my little black dress, not worried about being confident anymore, realizing much later that I was more at home than ever.
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