I had a bit of a to-do to attend tonight, and in somewhat of the capacity of host/emcee. I was kind of excited about having an appropriate occasion at which I could wear the stunning new top I bought when I was last in the big city.
(It occurs to me now that I never did chronicle my thrilling adventures in Boston earlier this month when I went to see the most awesome band ever, Ozomatli. Not only had I not been “over the bridge” since December, I hadn’t been to see live music in about 75 million years — that’s right, before the dinosaurs experienced their “extinction event”, as we geologists so euphemistically like to call it. If you know Ozomatli, you know I was drenched in sweat from dancing and that i did my best to hunt down the trombone player after the show and make out with him. Mission: Failed. But I did touch his sweaty arm and thank him for a great show. If you don’t know Ozomatli, then you really really should, and that’s that. They tour like maniacs, so you have no excuse to not see a live show. In any case, just before the show I did some shopping, and bought the best and sexiest black-lace-and-velvet shirt ever. This is the shirt I wanted to wear, finally, for the first time tonight.)
I generally tend to be a no-make-up, t-shirt-and-jeans kind of gal, so when I clean myself up, I clean up gooooood. Meaning: People suddenly notice I’m a girl, and it kind of throws them for a loop. So, natch, I give it my all.
So I carefully applied my favorite shade of lipstick, touched up my bitchin’ red toenails, slithered into my flowy black shirt and my favorite black pants, and checked myself out in the mirror.
Oh… crap crap crap crap.
You could totally see my too-pale bra through the awesome shirt, thus negating any inherent awesomeness.
Then I remembered I still had a favorite black bra, but I hadn’t seen it in ages (so rarely do I clean myself up in such a manner). I spent an hour flipping clothes madly into the air, creating an Eiffel Tower of clothes that really only serve archival purposes, trying to find this damn bra.
I sporadically returned to the full-length mirror in my office to confirm the fact that I really couldn’t wear this shirt with this bra, and holy christ I was so into wearing this shirt tonight, I honestly was going to throw a toddler tantrum if I couldn’t wear it, and I’d have to be given a time -out and sent to bed early, that’s how steamed I was.
I had already peered under my bed with a flashlight, under the couch, behind the bureau, in the dark corners of the closet, and was just about to reluctantly change my shirt because it was waaaay past time to leave the house when I thought to look between the bed and the wall and PRESTO.
In truth, it probably made no difference, because the room was dark at the event and all, but I know that I carried myself like I was new and improved with 100% More Sass because I knew I was Pretty On The Inside, or at least Sexy On The Underneath. And I think I did turn one of my secretly favorite heads, but I give the lipstick the credit for that.