Over the last week or so, I’ve wallowed. At various times I’ve snivelled, wept quietly, noisily bawled my eyes out, had days where I didn’t want to get out of bed because I couldn’t see the point of doing so, got angry, punched pillows, and generally felt like I was back wading through neck deep treacle again.
In the middle of all this, I got a last minute invitation to go to a ball. Seeing as the invite was received via a text message at one o’clock in the morning, and I was mid wallow, my initial reaction was to decline. A few hours later, at a sensible time of the morning, I spoke to my friend who managed to persuade me to go, on the understanding that if I found it too difficult I would leave.
So I became a wallowing, wading-through-treacle woman with a mission – finding a suitable dress to wear.
I have a fear of wearing the wrong clothes for occasions. I know exactly why I have this fear and it’s nothing to do with Little Bo Peep - that I can laugh at. But this particular memory still has the ability to make me feel very hot with embarrassment, even though it happened a long time ago.
When I was in my mid twenties and the children were still young, eating out occasionally consisted of trips to Macdonalds and the like, and nights out were virtually nonexistent. Significant Other and I were invited out by his brother and his wife for dinner one evening to what they described as a posh restaurant.
A few days before we were due to go, I got Significant Other to question my brother-in-law about the restaurant’s poshness, as I needed to decide what to wear. “You need to dress up,” was the all information I got – nothing about where we were actually going, and at the time I didn’t think to question it.
The evening arrived and I totally dressed up for it. I looked good. I felt great. Significant Other was impressed; hell, I was impressed.
A little while later I didn’t feel so great. And to say I felt distinctly unimpressed would be an understatement.
I was overdressed.
Way, way overdressed.
I looked so out of place, I looked like I’d been hired for the night.
Oh, it was a nice restaurant alright, but definitely not one that would be classed as posh. Believe me, words were spoken later about exactly what constituted posh, because as far as I was concerned a bloody fish and chip restaurant in Leyton (or Leytonstone, I can’t remember), East London did not come under that category.
I was so embarrassed I wanted to go home to get changed, but it wasn’t practical to do that, so I just had to brazen it out. Then something happened a bit later that added to my misery.
We’d had our meal and were enjoying drinks at our table. Conversation was flowing and I was sort of managing to forget I was dressed like a hooker. Bro-in-law cracked a joke. Unfortunately for me, I’d just taken a mouthful of drink so, being unable to laugh out loud and to prevent spraying my drink over my sister-in-law, I snorted.
And blew a snot bubble.
Oh joy.
A tart with a party trick.
Nice.
Even now, thinking about it makes me cringe. I was beyond mortified at the time. The ground opening up and swallowing me whole wouldn’t have been good enough – I wanted to be transported to a galaxy far, far away. Further, if possible.
Ever since that night I always, unsurprisingly, without fail, question very carefully what the dress code is to wherever I’m going. And I also make sure I have a hanky tucked away somewhere.
Anyway, I went to the ball suitably dressed and thankfully performed no party tricks.
Did it help lift me from the pit of wallow? Yes, a bit. It reminded me that life goes on regardless, no matter what personal misfortunes and tragedies may be lurking in the background of almost everyone’s lives.
Besides.
Eating a bloody Christmas dinner in November gave me something else to think about. As did pulling Christmas crackers and being told I should wear the paper hat. I think my wordless act of tearing up the paper hat rather than wear it in November spoke volumes regarding my feelings on that subject. Being wished a Merry Christmas in November also got up my nose.
I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again…
Bah humbug.
