The Red Christmas Dress
It was finally happening. I was going to The Night of Chocolate. It
is a dinner theatre for the Patrons of Art in Northeast Arkansas. I had been anticipating the chance
to attend for a
few years. Since our grandson was a part
of the cast, we reserved a table for our family. I anxiously prepared for the pre-Christmas event.
The search for the perfect dress ended with a red, crystal-speckled brocade
suit.
When the night arrived, our family
gathered in our suits, ties and sparkling finery, and I was having excitement
butterflies. After we arrived and as we
sat at our table, the room was abuzz with conversation. Later, we were welcomed to the affair and
then filed through the buffet line. I
noticed how people were attempting to balance a plate, drink and dessert at the
same time. I was no exception. I made it to the table unscathed, sitting my
drink and plate down. As I leaned down
to remove my night clutch from the chair to sit, I felt it. From my remaining hand-held dish, the Chocolate
Crème pie slid onto my chest. Dark,
chocolate crème pie decorated the bodice of my dress. I promptly sat down.
I looked down at my beautiful red brocade dress
covered in a pile of goop. I looked at my daughter across the table, “Is that a look of horror in my daughter’s
eyes on her face of stone?” The expression was priceless. If I could have hung a cartoon bubble over
her head, it would have read, “Elephant in the room? No, I don’t see it.” as our
eyes locked in motionless stone. Quickly, glancing at my husband who sitting
beside me, I saw he was oblivious to it all, I looked at my son-in-law. He was busy arranging his place setting and
was expressionless, but his shoulders were shaking-- that Inward Laughing Syndrome
that you can not contain.
I was in disaster mode then, and, obviously,
my family was so mortified they could not move.
I have to save myself. Understand, I’m not accustomed to saving
myself. I don’t open doors or pull out
chairs, and suddenly, I’m going to have to scrape chocolate crème pie into a
napkin before it falls all the way down the front of my dress. I grab every cloth napkin I can reach, and I
scoop with both hands and get the mountain of deep, b-l-a-c-k mush into the napkins. Wipe! wipe! wipe.! It was looking better. I was too embarrassed to look around and see whether
or not people were watching. Under a
fresh napkin covering, I headed to the ladies powder room. After washing my hands, I wet the napkin in
the sink and gave my lovely new dress an emergency hand bath.
Surprisingly, the brocade material
actually cleaned up beautifully. I
couldn’t see a bit of black crème anywhere.
It looked a little damp, but I decided I could survive that. As I re-entered the dining hall, I was
received with a standing ovation… No,
not really, but I should have received applause. I was passable clean. I reseated myself and had a delicious
meal. I learned an inescapable truth
that night: a person does not die from
embarrassment.
