There it was. Here was a chance. In the back of a closet of jeans, graphic v-necks and scrubs, was a bourgeoning fruition of girlish dreams that started with vintage-inspired secretary-Peggy Olsenesque junior sizes, then Madge's H&M foray, the labeled staple I bought for a steal online and then there's that number--my Audrey Hepburn movie waiting to happen.
It's my friend R.'s birthday and it's a black & white affair in some club on the peripheries of DC. I've not been out for what feels like a lifetime except for that time last spring where the sweet, crazy, cool Russian un-princess D. invites me to her own b-day, where my fashion choices I deemed rather rusty and unfortunate, although that jaunt through Georgetown was exactly what I needed.
So I'm trying it out- a Black Halo classic with a twist hoping for an iota of Sienna Miller-dom. Dress, opaque tights... now all it needs is a bad-ass bootie. Dress, opaque tights, I march downstairs to the general shoe/coat closet, on all fours and...nada. Dress, opaque tights, I march through a Bosnian war-zone of laundry hampers in the basement (where my shoes regardless of importance and frequency of wear get relegated to) on all fours, and still no booty.
As always my life, notwithstanding my contributions is shoved in some random, second priority slot. I think of the party and ask myself, am I missing much? I do not know anybody else coming to that. Despite our bond, R. has carved a life of her own-- a relationship, a host of friends and a hell of a social life. I am just another guest. Another body seated on the VIP table in a tight dress.
So here I am. In this dark, mess of a room that smells so strongly of reed-diffused lavender, I have a headache. Cats 101 is on marathon. The Lexapro just dulls the edge of despair. The Audrey Hepburn movie is back in the closet still awaiting it's moment. Perhaps it's never going to happen or it's just waiting for me to go back to the gym and to well-being. Perhaps I also need to get Spanx.
