(I know, I know, you might be in a different hemisphere. To be inclusive, happy whatever day it is for you.)
I woke up so late and groggy today.
I’m still recovering from a party I went to on Saturday night.
And, from the anticipation of the party.
It started at 10. 10! That’s when I like to get back from whatever Saturday night thing I did – which is always dinner, because that’s the only thing I ever want to do – and run to the closet to change into my sweats. Then, it’s bowl of ice cream and TV and Facebook. That’s what I want 10pm to look like.
When I’m invited to a party that starts at 10, it gets me into a “what do I wear to THAT?” meltdown.
And then I think I don’t have enough “going out” clothes. From magazines and J Crew emails, which come to my inbox every single f&$#* day but I don’t unsubscribe because I feel I’ll miss out on a deal on my favorite t-shirt or socks, I know that I’m supposed to have a sparkly top, holiday clutch, sleek cigarette pants or leather pants, and pumps.
Who are these people who can be going out in pumps in the winter, all exposed? I don’t like them at any time of year, because at that angle, my feet turn purple. Like, the color of foot that should have a toe tag on it. To paraphrase Valerie Cherish in The Comeback, which you should be watching, you don’t need to see that!
So forget the pumps, but I still end up in a retail spiral where I start shopping for the right pair of pants like they’re going to save the world.
I have so many attempts at “party pants” in my closet. You know, the faux-leather (leather being too hot and expensive) or waxed or shiny or velvety black numbers that dress up anything, even a tee, so you can look like you didn’t try too hard.
I found a pair I liked for this party, and they were totally unnecessary.
It’s not like it was a red carpet event. Or my event. No eyes were on me. There was no grand entrance down a staircase. I was sitting with a bunch of friends the whole time, some of us with our shoes off, legs folded
indian style criss-cross applesauce up on the banquette.
And it was so much fun. The kind of fun that involves shouting, though.
Did you ever notice that after a few hours of shouting at a party, and then another hour up eating cereal and puttering around when you get home because you didn’t really have dinner and you’re not quite as ready for bed as you though you were, your voice gets a certain kind of hoarseness that turns into a chest cold?
Back in the early 90s, I went out every night like it was my job. And it was, because I didn’t have a real job.
No wonder. Going out is no joke.
How do you handle parties?
Do you have the wardrobe and the energy?
TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS