My Oscar date this year was a non-plussed D, who fell asleep somewhere around the announcement for best actor. He's never been much for Oscar night, apart from appreciative gawks when I come downstairs all dressed up. I stuck it out though. It's my February tradition, and I'll be darned if I'm going to let a weirdly-charming-but-completely-tasteless host or long-winded speeches or a horrific appearance by Barbara Streisand throw me off my Oscar game.
Plus, it was good to finally feel well enough to drink bubbly alcohol, eat roasted garlic, stay up late and feel kinda sexy. I mean, I got to wear the dress I wore on the day D realized he was in love with me (or so the story goes). I haven't fit into that sucker in a few years, and when I found it buried in the back of my closet, I gingerly plucked it off the hanger and slid it over my head thinking No way in hell this is gonna fit, but not only did it fit, it felt great. Which meant I had to dig out the aforementioned pink heels, bought on a complete whim in Halifax while I was there on business eons ago. Those shoes have seen a lot of Ripley arena and wedding hall dance floors; the soles are practically worn off. A woman walks a certain way when she wears heels. You have to have confidence and a sort of nonchalance to pull it off, and I was out of practice, but after a few clicks up and down the hallway, it all came back to me.
I couldn't help but feel a little stab of joy as I peeked in the mirror to fasten the emerald necklace D gave me for Christmas a few years ago. Gone was the gaunt, hollow-eyed waif with the limp hair and stooped shoulders. Back was ME - the real me, the recovering me, the sexy me. Thank God. And thank Oscar, too. He gives me a reason to flounce around in a fancy outfit at least once a year.
1 comment:
Cool blog.
INVITE!
add we to watch list?
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