By Lorry Myers
For some reason I kept that old invitation and stumbled upon it just the other day. The invite was to a fundraising event and across the bottom, “Semi-formal attire” was in delicate script across bottom. So, I started digging through the far corners of my closet for something that would fit the requirement, and me. Finally, I decided on a little black dress that I would hardly describe as “little”.
That night, I sprayed and teased and curled my hair until I was satisfied. Sparkly earrings caught the light and I carried a classy clutch for my red lipstick. My shoes were high-heeled and surprisingly comfortable.
For now, anyway.
I’d volunteered to arrive early to assist with last minute details so my husband promised to park and find me inside. It was a cold night and the winter wind was wicked as it blew me to the door. Once inside, a restroom stop would be necessary to smooth my windblown hair.
That was the plan anyway.
Once inside, someone called from the kitchen and asked for my help. One thing led to another, and soon the hall was filling with people and I had yet to tend to myself. That’s when my husband walked in, looking hot in his gray suit and red tie.
I totally forgot what I was doing.
After dinner, I grabbed Randy’s hand, dragging him to the shortened line at the photo booth. That picture led to a “girls” photo, then a “table photo”, and finally an “official photo” of the Board of Directors of the non-profit organization hosting the event.
It was some night.
A few days later, the proofs from the photo booth were posted online for all to see. I scrolled through the pictures and admired the smiling supporters that had made the night so fun and so profitable. Finally, I found my first photo, the one I had taken with my husband. Randy was looking smart and professional in his suit. Then, there was me; black dress, dangly earrings, and hair looking like I’d been electrocuted.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.