Strictly Ballroom?

This past Sunday I got together with three girlfriends for dinner. I must admit, it’s been awhile since I’ve done anything much these days–the idea of sitting in my pajamas eating ice cream and going to bed around 9 pm has held a certain, shall we say, appeal these days (and no, I’m not pregnant, just boring). I could barely muster the energy to put a smattering of lip gloss on before running out the door. We were meeting at the Angelika and I was early, a rarity for me. The four of us used to work together–at an incredibly weird, strange office–the type of office that takes four years to fire someone for a daily liquid lunch but will scream and yell about being five minutes late. They are all great women: funny and smart and all very different. We discussed work and my new discovery of an ice cream flavored like vanilla cake. Don’t really like it, I told them. Too sweet. See, I really have so very much to discuss. I have become very, very fascinating. One thing though–as I sat waiting, and each one approached, I was intrigued by how well-put-together they all are. Eyebrows? Perfectly threaded, thank you. Hair? Beautifully cut. Footwear? I’ll take the pointiest, highest, sleekest boots, despite the fact that the sidewalks are covered in a slushy, slippery, snowy mush. Coat? Make it a tweed. I’d forgotten those days. Although I’ve never been that high-maintenance myself (well, if we’re talking about haircuts, etc., if we’re talking about in other ways, I can’t claim to be low-maintenance. Just ask the secretary–I’ve just returned my office chair for the second time in a month because it doesn’t "feel right". I fear she may never forward my calls again.). It occurred to me that perhaps my disinterest in such things is because of my constant focus on other issues. I then decided that it was actually because of my age. They all are, all three of them, younger than myself (when did this happen?). It’s definitely due to their youth, I thought. I’ve just become older and lazier. That was until the husband and I went to a showcase for newly graduating musical theatre majors last night. Schools from around the country come to New York each spring, invite local agents and "showcase" the talents of their students. This involves much singing and dancing. And apparently, blind costuming. The director must have been rifling through a warehouse of rejected competitive ballroom gowns, swung them over her shoulder, shoved them into her car, and presented them with much aplomb to the students. How else to explain the visual assault we were subjected to? Alternatively, perhaps she let them choose their own dresses and out of a fear of potentially stifling their creative energy, refused to utter a sensible word about their choices. Yellow dress complete with glitter á la the Ice Capades cut up to here? Of course! Brown satiny thing that hangs JUSTBELOWTHEHOOHAH (I won’t even mention the splits in the air and the crotch shot, oh, no, not the crotch shot. And yes, she was wearing some kind of panty under-thing that matched, but come on!). Absolutely! Red monstrosity that makes your boobs look like someone wrapped a four by four in red velvet and stuck it over your chest? Why are you even asking? And these are just to name a few. These are young, young women. Just graduating. The world is their oyster! They are amazingly talented! But their talents were greatly obscured by the garish colors and flounciness and splits and too much leg. And although one might point out that this could be a monetary issue, as they are all on student budgets (one presumes), those dresses likely cost a pretty penny. So, you see, young and old, we can all make some pretty strange clothing choices (I know, this is riveting stuff–what will she do next? Cure cancer?). All this brings me to a certain request: when I am about to go on stage, to sing my heart out, in that ill-fitting, satiny, glaringly bright garment, with my legs sticking out in too white hose and shoes that cut me off at the ankle, would you please, please just pull me aside and point out that I have a perfectly lovely black dress in the back of my closet that would be completely appropriate? I really appreciate it. Now all you have to worry about is breaking it to me gently that I can’t sing, not a note, not a peep. And also, that I have a little something green, likely spinach, stuck between my teeth.