The Gala
(Note. Whoopsie. Wrote this and never posted it.)
So, Chris and I are relatively simple, predictable people. Our days revolve around taking Emma for walks, caring for our children, working, and so on.
On Monday morning, we woke up and began another work week. I was working from home when I got a call: Did I want to go to a Christmas concert and black-tie gala at the Kennedy Center that very evening?
Oh, yes. Yes, I WANTED to. But COULD we? We'd need a sitter. I'd need a dress. Chris would need his tux. Ack!
How did we snag tickets to this hoity-toity DC event? Lord knows WE weren't about to shell out two grand for a two seats and tickets. But! Chris's employer is a corporate sponsor. Corporate sponsors get perks. Employees of corporate sponsors sometimes manage to benefit from said perks. This was an opportunity too good to pass up.
After much fretting about What To Wear, including a valiant act by our babysitter, bringing over an armful of gowns, I settled on the cranberry Vera Wang bridesmaid dress I wore in my friend's wedding years ago. It still fit and my mom promised that so long as I didn't walk around with a bouquet of flowers, I wouldn't look like a bridesmaid.
Well, this proved true. Because very few people at this event were young enough to even BE a bridesmaid, so the holy grail of being able to re-wear a bridesmaid dress was not even on anyone's mind.
I rushed to Chris's work, hauling his tuxedo and all its accoutrements. He donned it in a bathroom and emerged looking quite devilishly handsome. And off we sped to the Kennedy Center.
Oh, the Kennedy Center. I don't think we had been there since Charlotte was born. It's a grand, storied, glamorous place, with its soaringly high ceilings and 1970s gold chandeliers. Oh, and the bold red carpet.
We got there just in time and were ushered to our box seats for the choral concert, passing well coiffed ladies garbed in dead animals. PETA would not have approved, and I was glad I left my comparatively crappy coat in the car. I doubt I shall ever own a genuine fur coat, but I have to admit: they're kind of pretty.
Uh oh. I was getting sucked in.
Neither of us had ever had boxed seats for a performance before, so it was fun to watch from above. The gala was in support of the choral arts society, so the concert of course was a choral extravaganza--something along the lines of "Christmas in Washington" or whatever. It was enjoyable. I particularly liked a jolly Finnish piece that poked fun at folk dancing.
After the concert, we followed the glitz-clad people to the rooftop terrace, which is not actually on a rooftop (good thing, because it's freaking December). Waiters descended upon us with trays and trays of wine and a reddish champagne. I'm not much of a champagne fan, but this stuff was GOOD. A jazz band and singer were playing Christmas music, and the place was amazingly decked out.
It turns out that I really, really, really like galas.
Past the ballroom was another room where the silent auction and several open bars were set up. Here we could bid on such items as a $3,000-per-night stay at a hotel in Florence, a $15,000 diamond bracelet, artwork by artists we didn't know, cases of Argentinian wines, cases of $300-per-bottle champagne, and so on. "This is the sort of thing that makes the peasants revolt," I whispered to Chris. I'm sure it will shock my readers when I report that we did not bid on anything.
People milled about, all glitzed and glamoured. Some gowns were heinous, some were stunning. And women, myself included, were having the trains of their gowns stepped on constantly. Nonetheless, it was the most fun I've ever had people watching. "I think galas are really just opportunities for very rich women to wear a pretty dress and get a bit drunk," I told Chris. Don't get me wrong---I'm not judging. I think it sounds like a pretty fun time. After all, I was having fun, wasn't I? But I had a sneaking suspicion that few there really gave much of a hoot about the arts.
Eventually, it was time for dinner. We were shown into the ballroom and a parade of countless waiters entered, each carrying an open bottle of wine. "I think I've died and gone to heaven," I whispered to Chris. The room was decorated in an opulent, over-the-top fashion, with multiple floral arrangements on each table, china, 14 pieces of coordinating glassware per place setting, and so on. I know that the sensible, middle-class part of me should find it grotesquely showy and overdone, but you know what? I thought it was so freaking pretty.
Yeah, we were having a good time. Obviously.
We were assigned to a pretty darn decent table, so Chris's employer must be quite reliable in the sponsorship and donation category, and for all my griping about Chris's job-creator over the years, I found myself full of forgiveness. In fact, I was overflowing with gratitude. I felt inspired to write Warren Buffett a thank-you note.
We sat between two partners at law firms and their wives. Throughout the evening, Chris was asked multiple times what he did for a living. Me? I was not asked that question a single time.
"How sexist," I said."Especially in DC, where there's not exactly a shortage of ambitious women."
Chris gave me a conciliatory smile. "Look at these women. They. Do. Not. Work."
Naturally, my conversations were limited to discussion of my children and the lovely bucolic town I live, which our table-mates knew from long bike rides and as the place in which their horses were stabled.
Meanwhile, servers lined all the walls of the ballroom, each with the requisite bottle of wine. I think the server-to-guest ratio was somewhere around 2:1. One server approached Chris and asked, "Sir, may I get you a special drink from the bar?" Chris declined, having to drive soon, as did I, but lordy, the wealthy can DRINK. In short, everyone was getting politely, if gaily, sloshed.
"It's too bad we have to leave soon," Chris said, as we stuck to a bit more wine. (We promised the sitter we'd be home by 11:00---she had a very early morning the next day.)
"True," I said. "But we're not gonna be hurting tomorrow like these folks."
Eventually, we had to tear ourselves away from the event, skipping the main course and dancing. It was hard. We strode down a hallway to the elevator, and because we could still hear the music, and because Chris was in a festive mood, and because my dress actually had a good amount of twirability about it, he spun me around as we left the party. And perhaps there was a dramatic dip in the elevator.
We emerged on the main floor of the Kennedy Center. It was all lit up in its typical glory but also completely empty. To get to the parking garage, we had to walk the length of it, and when you're ALL dressed up, with a handsome prince-like dude to boot, it's easy to become Charlotte-like, feeling as though you're gliding about in a palace in some sort of fairy tale.
"When we woke up this morning, who would've thought we'd be closing out the day like this?" I asked Chris.
I was so, so glad we opted for spontaneity and let ourselves do something unplanned and so very out of the ordinary.
Also? Since we missed the dancing? When we got home, in a house lit only by Christmas trees, we had ourselves a couple dances, just the two of us.
Happy sigh.
So, Chris and I are relatively simple, predictable people. Our days revolve around taking Emma for walks, caring for our children, working, and so on.
On Monday morning, we woke up and began another work week. I was working from home when I got a call: Did I want to go to a Christmas concert and black-tie gala at the Kennedy Center that very evening?
Oh, yes. Yes, I WANTED to. But COULD we? We'd need a sitter. I'd need a dress. Chris would need his tux. Ack!
How did we snag tickets to this hoity-toity DC event? Lord knows WE weren't about to shell out two grand for a two seats and tickets. But! Chris's employer is a corporate sponsor. Corporate sponsors get perks. Employees of corporate sponsors sometimes manage to benefit from said perks. This was an opportunity too good to pass up.
After much fretting about What To Wear, including a valiant act by our babysitter, bringing over an armful of gowns, I settled on the cranberry Vera Wang bridesmaid dress I wore in my friend's wedding years ago. It still fit and my mom promised that so long as I didn't walk around with a bouquet of flowers, I wouldn't look like a bridesmaid.
Well, this proved true. Because very few people at this event were young enough to even BE a bridesmaid, so the holy grail of being able to re-wear a bridesmaid dress was not even on anyone's mind.
I rushed to Chris's work, hauling his tuxedo and all its accoutrements. He donned it in a bathroom and emerged looking quite devilishly handsome. And off we sped to the Kennedy Center.
Oh, the Kennedy Center. I don't think we had been there since Charlotte was born. It's a grand, storied, glamorous place, with its soaringly high ceilings and 1970s gold chandeliers. Oh, and the bold red carpet.
We got there just in time and were ushered to our box seats for the choral concert, passing well coiffed ladies garbed in dead animals. PETA would not have approved, and I was glad I left my comparatively crappy coat in the car. I doubt I shall ever own a genuine fur coat, but I have to admit: they're kind of pretty.
Uh oh. I was getting sucked in.
Neither of us had ever had boxed seats for a performance before, so it was fun to watch from above. The gala was in support of the choral arts society, so the concert of course was a choral extravaganza--something along the lines of "Christmas in Washington" or whatever. It was enjoyable. I particularly liked a jolly Finnish piece that poked fun at folk dancing.
After the concert, we followed the glitz-clad people to the rooftop terrace, which is not actually on a rooftop (good thing, because it's freaking December). Waiters descended upon us with trays and trays of wine and a reddish champagne. I'm not much of a champagne fan, but this stuff was GOOD. A jazz band and singer were playing Christmas music, and the place was amazingly decked out.
It turns out that I really, really, really like galas.
Past the ballroom was another room where the silent auction and several open bars were set up. Here we could bid on such items as a $3,000-per-night stay at a hotel in Florence, a $15,000 diamond bracelet, artwork by artists we didn't know, cases of Argentinian wines, cases of $300-per-bottle champagne, and so on. "This is the sort of thing that makes the peasants revolt," I whispered to Chris. I'm sure it will shock my readers when I report that we did not bid on anything.
People milled about, all glitzed and glamoured. Some gowns were heinous, some were stunning. And women, myself included, were having the trains of their gowns stepped on constantly. Nonetheless, it was the most fun I've ever had people watching. "I think galas are really just opportunities for very rich women to wear a pretty dress and get a bit drunk," I told Chris. Don't get me wrong---I'm not judging. I think it sounds like a pretty fun time. After all, I was having fun, wasn't I? But I had a sneaking suspicion that few there really gave much of a hoot about the arts.
Eventually, it was time for dinner. We were shown into the ballroom and a parade of countless waiters entered, each carrying an open bottle of wine. "I think I've died and gone to heaven," I whispered to Chris. The room was decorated in an opulent, over-the-top fashion, with multiple floral arrangements on each table, china, 14 pieces of coordinating glassware per place setting, and so on. I know that the sensible, middle-class part of me should find it grotesquely showy and overdone, but you know what? I thought it was so freaking pretty.
Yeah, we were having a good time. Obviously.
We were assigned to a pretty darn decent table, so Chris's employer must be quite reliable in the sponsorship and donation category, and for all my griping about Chris's job-creator over the years, I found myself full of forgiveness. In fact, I was overflowing with gratitude. I felt inspired to write Warren Buffett a thank-you note.
We sat between two partners at law firms and their wives. Throughout the evening, Chris was asked multiple times what he did for a living. Me? I was not asked that question a single time.
"How sexist," I said."Especially in DC, where there's not exactly a shortage of ambitious women."
Chris gave me a conciliatory smile. "Look at these women. They. Do. Not. Work."
Naturally, my conversations were limited to discussion of my children and the lovely bucolic town I live, which our table-mates knew from long bike rides and as the place in which their horses were stabled.
Meanwhile, servers lined all the walls of the ballroom, each with the requisite bottle of wine. I think the server-to-guest ratio was somewhere around 2:1. One server approached Chris and asked, "Sir, may I get you a special drink from the bar?" Chris declined, having to drive soon, as did I, but lordy, the wealthy can DRINK. In short, everyone was getting politely, if gaily, sloshed.
"It's too bad we have to leave soon," Chris said, as we stuck to a bit more wine. (We promised the sitter we'd be home by 11:00---she had a very early morning the next day.)
"True," I said. "But we're not gonna be hurting tomorrow like these folks."
Eventually, we had to tear ourselves away from the event, skipping the main course and dancing. It was hard. We strode down a hallway to the elevator, and because we could still hear the music, and because Chris was in a festive mood, and because my dress actually had a good amount of twirability about it, he spun me around as we left the party. And perhaps there was a dramatic dip in the elevator.
We emerged on the main floor of the Kennedy Center. It was all lit up in its typical glory but also completely empty. To get to the parking garage, we had to walk the length of it, and when you're ALL dressed up, with a handsome prince-like dude to boot, it's easy to become Charlotte-like, feeling as though you're gliding about in a palace in some sort of fairy tale.
"When we woke up this morning, who would've thought we'd be closing out the day like this?" I asked Chris.
I was so, so glad we opted for spontaneity and let ourselves do something unplanned and so very out of the ordinary.
Also? Since we missed the dancing? When we got home, in a house lit only by Christmas trees, we had ourselves a couple dances, just the two of us.
Happy sigh.
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