Drag Race
I enjoy dressing up. I enjoy it a lot. So when the Mysterious Workplace learned that we had been given an award, based partially on my work, I was pleased to be part of the two-person crew tasked with attending the black tie dinner and awards ceremony. "I am forgoing both bustle and corset," I announced as my co-worker made arrangements to rent a tuxedo. "For me, this is practically Casual Friday." Then I went about my business for the rest of the week and did not give it another thought.
This was a mistake. Mistakes were made. They weren't even new mistakes. I'd had this same problem when I suddenly needed something white to wear to the All World's Fair, only to recall that every white thing that I own is under filthy plastic tarps at Bunker 3. I had this problem when I needed a costume for my Saturday night aerial performance and I realized I had not seen the cardboard box labeled "Leotards and tights" since mid-December. Now I was scrambling around my blah-plex with one hour to put together an outfit for a black-tie gala, using only the load of laundry I had taken with me from Bunker 3 at the beginning of January.
"You have no gown, no pumps, and no pantyhose. All of your accessories are in a sealed box half a mile away. We have hidden the jewelry that you wear every day. You have no hair drier and no evening purse. Your nails are chipped and you could use a haircut. Time begins now."
Sometimes you have to do it all with makeup. Lipstick. Eyeliner. Hairspray. Something that could pass for a cocktail dress. Opaque black tights. Fluevog boots. Leather jacket. The effect was more "cocktail hour" than "black tie award ceremony," but I found it acceptable given the challenging nature of this assignment. If this was a reality show, I would not win the Dodge Durango, but I would not be told to pack up my knives/mascara/digital civil liberties and go.
This was a mistake. Mistakes were made. They weren't even new mistakes. I'd had this same problem when I suddenly needed something white to wear to the All World's Fair, only to recall that every white thing that I own is under filthy plastic tarps at Bunker 3. I had this problem when I needed a costume for my Saturday night aerial performance and I realized I had not seen the cardboard box labeled "Leotards and tights" since mid-December. Now I was scrambling around my blah-plex with one hour to put together an outfit for a black-tie gala, using only the load of laundry I had taken with me from Bunker 3 at the beginning of January.
"You have no gown, no pumps, and no pantyhose. All of your accessories are in a sealed box half a mile away. We have hidden the jewelry that you wear every day. You have no hair drier and no evening purse. Your nails are chipped and you could use a haircut. Time begins now."
Sometimes you have to do it all with makeup. Lipstick. Eyeliner. Hairspray. Something that could pass for a cocktail dress. Opaque black tights. Fluevog boots. Leather jacket. The effect was more "cocktail hour" than "black tie award ceremony," but I found it acceptable given the challenging nature of this assignment. If this was a reality show, I would not win the Dodge Durango, but I would not be told to pack up my knives/mascara/digital civil liberties and go.