Anyway, buffed and polished we went off in Husband’s shiny car for our evening out. Husband’s car is white with a red interior and red roof. His friends in Scotland call it his “hairdresser car.” It’s one of those sporty ones that everyone looks ridiculous getting out of because it’s soooo low to the ground. Add heels, a belly and Spanx and I looked like a toddler negotiating stairs for the first time. There was a lot grunting and turning around to back out and not one ounce of what I did looked good. Thankfully, it was freezing and no one was outside to witness my oafish display.
Husband and found our way inside the country club through the highest set of stairs I’ve ever climbed, which turned out, of course, to be the wrong entrance. It meant we had to turn around and go back the mountain of stairs or walk through the restaurant and down a looong hallway to get to the event space. Long hallway it was though to be accurate, Husband walked and I toddled. Once in the right room, we quickly found the bar, loaded up on drinks and looked for a table.
We see the folks in this club once a month and only know a few of them to talk to and a few more to nod at. And because of random life conflicts, it had been three months since we’d been to any meetings so we awkwardly found a table towards the back and staked our claim. Both of us sat there trying to look interesting and charming with our own conversation but not too interesting and charming that we might put off any seat mates. Husband realized he’d forgotten his name tag and went off to his car to get it – leaving me trying to look interesting and charming by myself, a feat not actually possible. At least not for me at a dinner where I only know a few folk to chat small talk too and none of them are there, and I’m sitting down so I don’t fall over and my Spanx is slowly rolling down my belly under my little black dress and I’ve just noticed a bruise the size of Cleveland on my shin. Feeling a right tit, I smiled my social smile and tried not to inhale my drink too quickly.
And then, the most wonderful thing happened. A couple, not put off by my inner monologue of crazy, sat in the seats to the right of us and a couple sat in the seats to the left of us and they looked friendly and not at all weird and frightening and we chatted silly small talk with those weird awkward pauses where we smile at each other and then look away but it was good. And then Husband came back and told us the President of the club had called him over – whistled to him to come over actually and informed him that there were supposed to be floodlights outside on the cars and that he needed to take care of that right away and that that when he was done, he was needed at the bar and to make it snappy. This is a man who has met us more than a few times. Apparently husband’s choice to wear the grey shirt and not wear the white shirt because he might look like the wait staff backfired since all the wait staff was in grey!
And that’s all it took – one embarrassing story that did not happen to me – and the ice was broken. We became fast table friends and told interesting and charming stories to each other all night and had a fabulous time.
So what if we didn’t win any of the fabulous prizes – oversized calendar anyone? So what if after a year of membership, the President of the club thinks Husband is wait staff. So what if I was laughing so hard on the way back from the bathroom, the older woman in the knitted shawl shot me the look of death. I didn’t fall down or drop anything and I made a new friend.
I might actually try dressing up more than once every few years. Look Ma, I’m growing up. And it’s not as scary as I thought.