Remember those old movies where a couple would reunite after years of separation? They had memories of their youth and young love to hold onto until they stepped inside a dimly lit restaurant. The room would be full and busy but somehow, some way their heart would lead them to their lost love, and it would only be the two of them in their own private world. Of course, the mood would be set with candles and a bottle of wine, from the year they first met of course, and they would talk about life's twists and turns and joke about how funny it was that they ended up crossing paths after all those years. He would grin, she would blush, and years down the road they would get married and tell the very same story of life's tribulations to their grandchildren. Sweet, right? That's what I thought, but tell me—why the hell can't life be like that?
"I swear, I'm never going back to that dry cleaner again," I growled, teeth clenched as my fingers wrestled with the zipper on the back of my dress. It felt like I was taken back to my high school years. I could see it perfectly: Greenwich High School; 1994; prom night. The situation seemed to be exactly the same. I was sweating profusely, on the verge of homicide and preparing for one of the biggest nights of my life. I was ready to scratch my own eyes out while my best friend, Lindsey Greene, buried her nose in the pages of a magazine. Sure there were two separate guys and tonight Lindsey was reading about the latest stock market happenings instead of staring at a pre-bald Joey Lawrence, but the events were practically identical.
I know, I know. At 29 years old I shouldn't draw parallels to my senior prom, but the night was important. Too important for my stupid dry cleaner to shrink my favorite black dress--- and yes, shrinking was the only explanation. It was unfortunate too. The dress was a pretty sultry number: form-fitting, knee length and low enough to flaunt my best assets. It was the kind of dress that was too risqué for a first date but perfect to freshen up the memory of an old friend. And when I say perfect, I mean perfect. My face was flushing bright red, growing brighter as I grew more infuriated with my zipper. Yanking and growling I struggled and fought with all the strength I could muster until I heard that one little thread rip. My heart dropped.
"Oh, honey," Lindsey murmured soothingly. I could feel the wetness of tears cascade down my face as my childhood friend and current heroine pulled me close in an attempt to calm my nerves. "Everything will be all right. You look beautiful, and you know you don't have anything to worry about. You're not out to impress anyone tonight," she said, her fingers wrapping around my curls not unlike my mother did in my teen years whenever I still went to her with my problems. And Lindsey was right about everything. "You're worrying yourself to death over a man that would go to Hell and back for you," she continued to reason. "With everything you put each other through there really isn't much to agonize over. Just put this on instead, fix your makeup and have the time of your life. I'm commanding you to, okay?" With a wide, pearly white grin, Lindsey pulled me around to face the closet as she had been and gestured toward a red dress hanging by its lonesome at the very back of my walk-in.
Five minutes later, I had squeezed myself into the wine red dress, because yes, despite the way it looked, it wasn't painted on. And to think, the first and only time that I had worn it was to a charity event. Perhaps it wasn't so absurd that my decency went unknown for years. Well, regardless, I was satisfied with the way I looked. The dress, as tight as it was, was able to maintain some class and still appeal to my less-than-subtle curves. My hair, then blonde, was nicely curled and my make-up was practically flawless. "Are you ready?" Lindsey asked, acting as my support beam, her hand on my arm. I was ready. I was ready, but as soon as Lindsey let go I could feel myself crashing down. As soon as I had stepped one foot out the door, I was prepared to turn back around and whine until Lindsey let me back in. I was able to maintain a steady groan from the driveway all the way to the restaurant.
Trust me, I wasn't groaning for long. The restaurant was a fair sized building, an intimate setting lit by chandeliers and a modest amount of candlelight. The room was packed and the bar was depressingly full. There were tables of families and long lost friends. There were wedding parties and bible study groups. Every cluster you could think of was gathered around a table, large or small, laughing and smiling over old times and Indian food. Not unlike those movies I was talking about earlier. I felt like a sore thumb--- not even a sore thumb --- more like a broken thumb. I had a feeling from the moment I walked into the restaurant that I didn't belong in my idealistic movie scenario like all of the people surrounding me. I was like a deer at a hunting lodge, and yet I stammered over to the hostess with a sheepish and not completely uncomfortable smile without letting my confidence shatter that very second.
"Hi, I'm here under the McMahon-Helmsley reservation," I said to the woman standing at the podium. Like the lady I was I remained composed and took a deep breath. I held myself together, as well as I could for a woman about to have a date with her ex-husband, but I couldn't help but wonder: would I be headed for agony or in my case 'ex'-tasy?
Right now the answer seems to be pretty obvious to me, but let me be the first to tell you, things aren't as simple as choosing one or the other. But you'll understand that eventually.