At The Ball Without My Tiara
I used to go to balls. Grand, gala affairs with delicious food & open bars. Ladies in gorgeous gowns & terrifying plastic surgery on the arms of men in festive kilts & comb-overs to hide their bald spots. I used to wear pantsuits in protest. Black & sleek. My hair in a strictly smooth bun, minimal makeup. I was the contact for the non-profit benefiting from the ball after all. Not a guest. Believe me, never a guest.
My boss never let me forget it as she schmoozed her way like a slick leech through the ugly pseudo-royalty. Leaving me to be sure those who were already tipsy got their program & a pert reminder of the live auction to come. “We have a foursome at Baltusrol golf course!” The golf course named for a murder interestingly enough.
If they only knew she usually wore her blouses tucked in & a fanny pack from the 1980s slung around her hips. She was 70 & wretched. Sort of like the pre-frozen, re-heated hors d’oeuvres at lesser functions where the goal is to actually make money for the non-profit. Balls are not for dancing anymore. Apparently they are now networking events & an excuse to get drunk on someone else’s dime -- namely the non-profit.
Poor Cinderella.
My boss never let me forget it as she schmoozed her way like a slick leech through the ugly pseudo-royalty. Leaving me to be sure those who were already tipsy got their program & a pert reminder of the live auction to come. “We have a foursome at Baltusrol golf course!” The golf course named for a murder interestingly enough.
If they only knew she usually wore her blouses tucked in & a fanny pack from the 1980s slung around her hips. She was 70 & wretched. Sort of like the pre-frozen, re-heated hors d’oeuvres at lesser functions where the goal is to actually make money for the non-profit. Balls are not for dancing anymore. Apparently they are now networking events & an excuse to get drunk on someone else’s dime -- namely the non-profit.
Poor Cinderella.