sorry about the duplication, my wife had a much different accounting of the event, so to please her I inculde it now:
The Ballet: what REALLY happened…
When I told Tom we were joining friends for the ballet presentation of DRACULA, he cocked his head to the side, where it stayed for many minutes as he pondered how “Dracula” could be performed in such a venue. I tried explaining up until the night we loaded into the car to go there what the ballet was and how the dancers tell a story through movements and music. He still didn’t seem to understand but bless his heart, he got all dressed up and went along with the whole gig just for me.
Getting dressed up:
Tom got home and rushed to the upstairs closet to put on his uniform, er , his suit. It isn’t really a suit, but separate pieces of matching articles purchased nearly 5 years ago when we met. This has been the staple “dress up” outfit he owns, which before that was a handsome Armani suit his parents bought him shortly before he graduated High School. He had tried and tried to get more mileage out of that thing, but it just didn’t fit anymore. The boy had become a man. I asked him to get a tux because I have this ‘thing’ about us matching, especially at something like this. However, at any type of dressy occasion, you can bet I will know what he will be wearing, the only variable being what tie clip he will be donning, the one with the elephant, or the one that looks like a tiny cigar?
We shouted back and forth from up to downstairs fighting about why he had to wear a tie, as I bustled about giving the baby sitter last minute instructions. I tacked on the last of my jewelry, which, albeit only costume, I looked smashing in a new formal black gown and dual tone accessories. I felt beautiful, thin and young, and ready to celebrate a night out with my husband and good friends.
The way our mutual schedules worked out with our friends, we were not able to have dinner before the show. We DID stop at McDonalds for a small fast bite so his whole story about how starving he was just doesn’t fly after downing 2 Big ‘N Tasty’s. When we got to the playhouse, there was only a local bar open. We went in and toasted to what so far promised to be a fun night. Then the auditorium doors opened and before our eyes was a modest spread of carved to order meats, cheeses, pastries, veggies, a full bar, and coffee. Tom hovered over the sneeze guard like a sticky fingered child, pointing to each item, asking what was what and how much it costs. He grasped his heart when the server told him a small party plate of assorted cheeses was seven dollars. He stuck his hand into deep pockets and fiddled with the hundred dollar bills he keeps stashed away there just because he likes to feel cold hard cash sometimes. He bent down and looked at all his other options weighing the cost against how satisfied his hunger would be, then opted to “split” the cost of a veggie plate with our friends. From his other pocket, the expendable cash pocket I suppose, he pulled out a wrinkled 20 and with a pained breath handed it over.
We ate standing in a corner of the packed lobby, using our cocktail napkins as tiny plates. The crowd was romantic and beautiful, some dressed in costume, others in formals, most in elegant black. As for me, I was wearing a full length gown that had a sexy slit up one leg. Black stockings and tall heels. I am tall enough as it was so my extra stature commanded a certain power from the room. I felt like I had my head up high and I felt magical. I had draped a wool shawl over my shoulders that was very long with delicate fringe. But the thing that really bothered Him, was my plunging neckline supported by a very powerful and amazing push up bra. The bra could stand alone, but pack it full of mastic tissue and you have just become the mayor of Clevage City, population, two.
He kept trying to tuck them in, or cover them up, and at one point tried to drape them with his tiny plate, which to this day I think is still lost in my bra. He turned two shades of red just catching accidental glances of my gladiators. They drew the attention of every man and woman in the room, some, I saw even looking twice, or leaning in to whisper others to my direction. I didn’t care, they looked great. Shining with a light dusting of glittery powder, I bore them proudly, even admiring them myself when they caught the right light and beamed like dewy hills.
I gloated to myself in the stares of men on the arms of other women who pinched their husbands asses as I walked by.
Still, my heart was broken that the One I had so pampered my darlings for was embarrassed, and put off by my breasts first social coming-out.
The whole night, he had not said once that I looked pretty, or sexy…
The ballet started with an attention getting opener, which had Tom in his seat flipping through the program in the dark trying to figure out who the players were. He spent so much time with his nose in the book trying to make sense of it all, that he practically missed the impressive first half. Agreeably, the lines were too full at each intermission to wait for decent snacks, his coffee he waited 15 minutes for was too hot to drink before going in, but mine is not a husband that wastes anything so as other guest hurried past him to get to their seats, he stood being jostled with his coffee at arms length hurriedly sipping it. Torn apart, I was carried in on the arms of strangers through the sea of pastry crumbs and fallen napkins, where we finally met at our seats again. At the end of the night, he clearly was still confused, asking a lot of questions about who was who and what had happened and where was still open that we could stop to eat. We said good bye to our friends, found our car and headed out of the city lights back to suburbia. At home my glittering bouncers were unleashed to the privacy of their comfy sweatshirt, my curls unpinned and left to stray, makeup removed and stockings peeled off. I pulled back the covers and grabbed the remote, when he came in to hang up his uniform. He gave a glance at me in the bed and said, “You look beautiful”.
