No Glittering

If you know me at all, you know you are much more likely to find me sporting sweats or wearing a pair of jeans than all glammed up in diamonds and pearls.  The thought of having to apply make-up, squeeze into pantyhose and do my hair is more of a challenge than a good time.  But I am a good sport, so when my Douglass alumnae sisters need me to attend an event, even one that is formal, I’ll start the primping process. 

While I never mind shopping, going on a mission to find something dressy, that fits, looks decent and is comfortable enough to wear all night is no easy task.  But Macy’s had just the right outfit, muted yet glimmering, classy and elegant.  Totally not me, but hey, I can pull it off, I figured. 

I should have recognized the problem as soon as I saw the tag that said, “The glitter on this garment gives it added dimension and beauty.”  OK, that’s kind of what I am looking for.  But then they added this telltale warning: “Due to the natural characteristics of the fabric, some glitter may fall off during wear.”

“Natural characteristics?”  Does that mean gravity?  “Some” glitter?  Because shimmering things were jumping ship as I paid for the outfit at the register.  I wisely asked the salesperson to put it in a separate bag from the black skirt I bought to wear with it.  I even kept it in isolation in the closet until I was ready for the big night. 

As soon as I removed the clothing from the plastic isolation chamber, glitter started raining down on the carpet in the walk-in closet.  As I put it on, more sparkles flew.  I went to the bathroom, sequins went to the floor.  The good news, I figured, was that if I went missing that night, there would be a trail of glitter the authorities could use to trace my steps.  If I had been abducted, there would be no need for DNA testing.  The glitter would provide all the evidence needed to find me. 

When I put on make-up I had glitter on my face.  When I put on my new black patent leather shoes, gold flakes littered the tops.  When I took out my phone to take a picture the fall-out continued, festooning the case. 

Finally, all dressed up and with somewhere to go, I was afraid to enter any room in my house after leaving the bedroom.  Or sit down, for that matter.  I really did not want my new sectional sofa to glow in the dark.

So I went to the garage, leaving a shiny trail through the laundry room.  I grabbed an old towel I keep in the car so that when I sat down in the backseat of my friends’ car, I wouldn’t glitter that up, either.  Now my garage floor has a shimmer it never had before.

Since the party was actually conducted in two separate venues, I’m sure I left plenty of glitter for the cleaning crews to remove.  And the dance floor came alive with that certain glow as I partied with my pals.

And then Cinderella came home from the ball, took off the now slightly less shiny outfit, put on pajamas -- and took out the vacuum.  Just like the real Cinderella (OK, I know it is a fairy tale, but go along with me on this), I went back to work as the clock struck midnight, diligently attempting to round up all of the shiny stuff.  Three times I unplugged the vacuum convinced I had captured it all.  Three times I plugged it back in and tried again.  My bedroom carpet hasn’t been vacuumed this carefully since I moved in, and, yet, I still see evidence of the evening.  I had to keep changing the angle of my head to make sure I could see every last sparkle.  Even this morning there was glitter on my pajamas, my face and my chest.  I didn’t even try to check my hair.  I went to the community pool to work out and probably brought some along with me.  Next, I’ll find it on my bathing suit.

I think the next time around I’ll have to get back to cotton, “the fabric of our lives.”

Here’s the scenario I imagine:  Years from now, when I am dead and gone and the house goes on the market and the realtor is showing it and some older couple (this is an age-restricted community, after all) declares that they love it and want to buy it, they will hesitate for one reason and – no doubt – ask the realtor this question:

“What’s with all the glitter?”