That’s how I had it written on our board: Thursday, fancy night.
When our good friends, P and K, both cancer survivors, invited us to a benefit called Rein in Sarcoma, we accepted.
Jay told me about the event on Monday, so I had no time to figure out what to wear. For men, it’s easy: if they own a suit that fits, they’re good. Women need to consider current fashion, time of the year, whether they have a waist this week or not…
I get dressed up approximately every three years or so, not including Christmas and Easter. Since 2010, however, I’ve been on a tear. That’s the year Jay was inducted into the NJCAA basketball hall of fame in Vegas and I needed to dress for sin city and several events. Later that year, Tyler and Megan got married and I had to dress like the Mother of the Groom, as opposed to the bag lady in the corner. Then there was 2014, the year in which we were involved in no less than 7 weddings, with all attendant showers, dinners and gatherings. Four of those weddings involved the same people (three nieces, both sides of the family and one friend of both sides of the family) so I needed different outfits for all those showers, dinners, ceremonies and receptions. I own more clothes right now than I’ve ever had in my life.
I have no idea on any given day if any of it fits.
My favorite dress fit when I tried it on but I needed shoes. I’ve worn the dress before with my silver wedge sandals but the weather has been cold so I wanted some non-open toed shoes. I have several pairs of anklet boots that I love but none are fancy enough to wear with a dress. One pair is almost fancy enough…
I went to DSW and found a pair of simple black pumps with a slim little heel in 9 ½ wide. Wide! That’s nearly impossible to find!
I also wore the blue necklace I bought last spring at Burlington, which I hadn’t had a chance to wear yet. I think I looked good. I felt fabulous!
The party was at a beautiful old building in downtown St. Paul. Jay and I took the river road to get there. The moon was rising over the trees on the east side of the river, the colors of the trees were just past peak; muted, subtle and gorgeous.
The hall was regal looking. Forty foot ceilings, marble floors and fancy waiters and waitresses floating around offering shrimp cocktails and these delicious dates stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in bacon. In addition to K and P, our table sat a delightful young couple and a pair of lovely young ladies. We had a terrific time.
There were many opportunities to support the cause, including a silent and live auction and a game called Box of Rocks. A hundred tiny jewelry boxes tied with green ribbons were for sale at $20.00 each. All had a rock inside and one of those rocks was a half carat diamond.
After dinner, we were all opening the boxes we’d bought, waiting to hear the screams that would tell us who had found the diamond.
Seconds ticked by and there were no shouts of joy. Jay and I got ours opened fairly quickly: no diamond. Everyone at our table opened a box: no shouts. K and P took a little longer because right before dinner P bought the last two boxes left so they had to open two each.
Naturally, the diamond was in the last box sold…and the last box opened at the end of the night.
We all yelled our heads off when K held up the diamond.
It was a good night.
Then I stood up after dinner and discovered that my shoes had turned into rusty tin cans full of broken glass and bent nails on my feet. Jay practically had to carry me to the car. He asked me why I hadn’t worn my regular sandals, pointing out that half the women there had been wearing ugly flats. Not only that, but I could have worn my not so fancy boots and no one would’ve raised an eye brow.
I explained to him that he should shut up.
Jay knows my relationship with shoes is contentious, unlike his relationship with shoes, which is one of history’s great love affairs. On average, he owns at least 9 pairs of athletic shoes (not counting his golf shoes) at any given time. Same with dress shoes.
We drove down memory lane (7th street) to get out of town. We reminisced about our years playing at the Sal with DCTC. We passed DeGidio’s, the gym and some of our other favorite places and when we got to Mancini’s, Jay pulled over. I’ve never been there and Jay said that was a terrible oversight that had to be rectified.
“I can’t go in.” I said. “I’d have to put those shoes back on and I’m never doing that again.” The shoes I’d bought that afternoon had already been mentally consigned to the ARC bag.
“So leave ‘em here.” He said, opening his door. “No one inside is going to notice if you’re not wearing shoes.”
He was right.
We went in, wandered around, peeking into the dining room before heading for the bar. That place is awesome! It’s super old school; naugahide banquettes and frosted mirrors…it looks like the ghosts of Sinatra and Martin would love to hang out there. Jay and I sat at the bar and ordered our drinks, then watched the crowed on the dance floor. The band was a trio: a bass guitar, accordion and drum. They were playing fifties covers and about a dozen couples were on the dance floor, having a blast.
No one in the place was under fifty. The walls are covered with photos of St. Paul dignitaries. We found photos of several friends of ours.
After a drink, a tour and several songs, my feet felt fine as we left. Walking around nearly barefoot is a great way to massage the aches out of one’s feet.
By the time we got home, all I remembered was a fabulous evening, the cruel shoes and sore feet already a barely remembered inconvenience.