Last night, my hubby and I were invited to a dinner out. It was a nice dinner, at a restaurant we don't usually frequent, and it was with a group of really very lovely people, very kind and nice people - a group in which I really feel out of place. I'm kinda the black sheep of the group, the one who really just doesn't belong.
That's about as opaque as one can make the details, I suppose. The details aren't really that important, they just set the stage.
I wanted to wear a sweater dress - I have three of these, one in black, one in gray and one in dark purple - and I love them so very much. I really want to get one in red. I put my hair on hot rollers - gotta love big, poofy hair - slipped on my black tights and pulled on the sweater dress. For whatever reason, the dress grabbed hold of the tights and would not let go, and I realized I needed a slip.
But the slip I wanted to wear wasn't available, and so I scrounged around in the back of the drawer and pulled out an old slip. It was a slip that I used to wear, a long time ago when I was a fatty fat. Now that I am a fat, not quite as fat as I was - when I pulled the slip on, it didn't rest at my waist but slipped down to my hips. Which meant that I had two inches of lace hanging out of the bottom of the dress.
Not quite the look I was longing for. I was running super late - I had to pick up a kid from vocal rehearsal and take two over to ballet - and a quick rummage didn't locate the preferred slip, so I tucked the waistband of the slip into the waistband of the tights, checked the hem and saw nothing, grabbed my makeup bag and jumped in the truck.
When I got to the rehearsal location, I had a few minutes, so I decided I'd touch up my makeup. I pulled out my mascara - which is a new tube, and you know how goopy those new tubes are, yes? - and as I brushed it on my right lashes, my kid knocked on the window and I turned my head
and I jabbed that goopy mascara wand into the corner of my eye
and so, I tried to slide my fingernail under it, the way you do sometimes, if luck is with you and you can just flick that clump of mascara up
but instead, I managed to smear that mascara all over my inner eye
and so I used a few of my fingers to try to lift it up
and managed, in short order, to have 8 blackened finger tips and a black eye. FANTASTIC. She got into the truck and I pulled out my concealer and tried to cover the black up
being that it was dusk and I was in a shadowed section of town and I had no eye makeup remover, well, it looked great to me. It wasn't until I went into the ballet studio and got my daughters into class and my youngest parted with the words
I love the lace on the bottom of your dress, Mom
and I realized that the blasted slip had come untucked and I went into the bathroom while berating myself for my own stupidity and looked in the mirror to notice that I had a perfectly formed black eye, which mimicked for all the world a beating at the hands of someone fierce and I looked like I'd tried to cover it badly
and realized I hadn't done such a great job with the rubbing and the concealer application at all. And of course I had no makeup remover, and so I cleaned it up with cheap soap and scratchy paper towels and fixed my makeup once again
and went to the dinner, which was equal parts lovely and uncomfortable, as is just about all of my life, and I'm sure that there is a metaphor there for something but I'm too dense to figure it out
and on the way out of the restaurant, my husband pulled me aside and whispered
Hon? I think your slip is hanging out
And I came home and threw it in the trash and realized that, no matter how hard I try - I will never get my shit together.