Fabulous at Forty

Last night was the second night in a row that I stayed up past midnight. And had more than one — scratch that two — scratch that — who’s counting — drinks.

The horror… what would my doctors say? Actually this is England and they would probably tell me to party as long as I feel up to it. One of them once told me to drink less than he did and I should be fine. Really.

Oh relax, I didn’t have a drop tonight and I am going to bed by 11:00 pm. I promise. And tomorrow I will go right on that all wheatgrass, seaweed and flaxseed diet. Gag.

Seriously though did you hear that they think they might be able to cure a certain type of aggressive breast cancer with something innocuous extracted from celery? Yes, people. Celery. And parsley. Like oh great I get chemo and radiation and future sufferers get parsley. What’s next? Probably sage, rosemary and thyme would be my guess.

But I digress.

Back to yesterday night. And the night before that. So I mentioned in Upchuck that my law school roommates were in town and then my best college friend flew in Friday morning. We had an impromptu get together chez nous on Friday evening and that is why I stayed up so late and it was worth it.

Saturday was the day of my birthday party and I had exactly one day left to shop for a new dress. So I didn’t, of course. I decided on an old classic. Speaking of old classics I did at one point yesterday consider wearing my prom dress to the cocktail hour of the party. Just for shits and giggles. I tried the thing on and it still fit and everything. Even with my newbs! But then I didn’t want to deal with a full wardrobe change and it’s a damn good thing because it turned out that the bathroom was up a flight of stairs, across a little ways, and down another flight of stairs. Not good for wardrobe changes. If you’re Chinese and have a small wedding don’t get married here. The stairs will kill you.

Instead I settled on another classic, the little black dress. I have a couple good ones and this one is The Row (what, the Olsen twins are really good designers) and it’s a simple short sheath. Say that three times fast. I wore it with Wolford tights with big holes in them (sort of like fishnets on steroids) and my favourite old (we’re talking well before kids) Gucci stilettos that are a little bit rocker. I forgot to have someone do a full-length shot so you will just have to envision the full deal.

One can always refresh something old with something new. So, because I didn’t have a new frock, I wore my “new” circa 1990 perspex and rhinestone collar and cuff (yes my cuff does match my collar), which I found at Liberty’s vintage section and just had to have. To top it off I threw on the little black hat borrowed from my lovely friend, Carine, and that H&M flower I debuted in Party in the Chemo Suite. Voilà, dressed for dinner.

Something old, something new, something borrowed and something I bought at H&M. It’s not a fucking wedding, people.

Pictured with me is my husband, Bill. Isn’t he handsome? And he’s not afraid to wear lavender. I love that.

It may look like we’re in a tube station from the ceiling but we are actually in the wine cellar, which is a much more appetising place to have dinner.

Don’t be disappointed about the prom dress. Even though I decided not to do it, I wanted the evening to have some little twist. So I settled upon a wardrobe change for my head, which required a lot less work and a much smaller plastic baggie to hide under my seat. Sometime between antipasto and dinner, I came back likah dees (it was an Italian restaurant): 

Let them eat cake. Actually it was brioche, not cake. But Marie Antoinette was a beeyotch either way.

The thing is, after this I no longer fear that my hair may grow back mostly white. My mother has lovely silver white hair and has never dyed it. I have not gone this route, covering them roots as often as practicable. But I have to say I dig the all-white look. It’s kind of killer.

You can’t see the curly tendrils that went down my back in this pic but man this is a great syrup (that’s Cockney rhyming slang for “wig,” you septics — oh that’s Cockney rhyming slang for Yanks. If you don’t know what Cockney rhyming slang is you are now really confused. Ha ha!). My friend Carine also lent me this wig. The French know how to adorn their heads, I say.

The people in the restaurant must have thought I was a nutter. I mean I came up and down the stairs (apples and pears — more Cockney rhyming slang) three separate times, once in my black hat, once in the Marie Antionette wig, and once — after I got hot and threw the wig at my friends and made them try it on — completely bald. But I have to hand it to restaurant staff; they totally rolled with it.

This is me, Marie, with my Mark (the college friend I was telling you about). He wore a bow tie special for the occasion. Even tied it himself! Aw.

By the way someone asked me if my necklace was real diamonds and if it was a present from my husband. Are you serious? That would be a LOT of diamonds. Lloyds of London would have to insure my neck if I went out in that shit. Not to mention we would have to be gazillionaires to afford such a thing. It does catch the light just so though, no?

Anyhoo, the evening was a real hit. I had a fabulous time and I think everyone else had fun too. My husband made a speech and I almost cried but managed to reabsorb before actual spillage occurred. The food was great. And I felt very lucky to be among old and new friends to celebrate after a hell of a few months.

Speaking of new friends, here is a pic of my very good friend Susan and me (the Susan from Armpit Wig). You can guess why I seated myself next to her. Vavoom. 🙂 Oh calm down, I did the seating chart the day before and it’s not like I knew she was going to wear that dress.

In all seriousness though, surrounding oneself by beauty is a very healthy thing to do. And for me this was a beautiful night. It was perfect. It was unforgettable. It was killer.

I hope I have this much fun at my fiftieth.

2 thoughts on “Fabulous at Forty

Leave a Reply