“No, you can’t wear that. It’s supposed to be a formal function,” my father pointed out, with a distinct emphasis on the word ‘formal’, as I looked down at my black pants and top. I honestly could not find anything wrong with it.
“I don’t have any other ‘formal stuff’ to wear, ” I shrugged, and began searching through my wardrobe. Again. My mother was away on a vacation – if not, she would have been the one to accompany my father to the dinner, and not me. That would have saved my father and I from headaches and embarassment.
“See, when you go shopping, you should at least get yourself some formal clothes – and not only jeans and tees. Emergencies like these come up and you have got nothing to wear!” my father said, exasperated. We were almost running late. “You should have shown me in advance what you are going to wear to the dinner,” he grumbled.
In (silent) response, I kept hearing the word “Bah!” in my head. I just could not envision seeing myself in a red sequined evening gown with laces all over its edges, sweeping the floor while I tread (clumsily and painfully) in a pair of gold-coloured, two-inch-high heels – and that is why, I never bought anything like that (or anything remotely resembling that, even).
I detected a tinge of disappointment in him – his daughter does not really seem to be blossoming into a mature young lady (or woman? Gasp!) who would have at least good fashion sense, meddle with make-up and the likes of it.
In the end, I managed to dig up another black suit and off we went to the dinner, where I ogled at the other women with their (oh, definitely more formal) evening dresses, got mildy splashed with red wine by an over-enthusiastic wine taster (I have never heard of that apathetic an apology, hmph), and was served by an extremely inefficient waiter who disappeared from our table most of the time, claiming that it was only his “first day” at work – in a five-star hotel.
I cannot believe I did not emit even a squeak when I noticed one big, dark, splotch of red wine on the right sleeve of my black suit, choosing instead to dwell in ignorance and lightly dab it with a napkin under the table. I could not determine if the black suit actually belonged to me, or my mother’s. The pants did not even reach my heels. Dang.
It was lovely to hear Tan Soo Suan and the Dama Orchestra again.
I wonder when the feeling of trying to be fashion conscious would finally sink in, and be engraved within me. Right now, Strizzt is still a walking fashion disaster.
No, I do not need a makeover. I feel like splashing red wine on someone else, though.
Gmail account up for grabs. If interested, do not hesitate to ask. While stocks last.
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