In the fairy tale : when Cinderella rocked up to the Prince’s palace for an evening of dancing and romancing, she razzled. She dazzled. Although I seriously doubt she was vajazzled.
The Prince noticed her immediately, looking upon her with much desire and they spent the evening twirling beneath whatever it was they had before disco balls were invented.
Did the Prince have ANY idea AT ALL what poor Cinders had to go to arrive in such diva-like fashion? Nuh!
Did he know she almost didn’t make it? Did he know she had 2 revolting step sisters plotting to keep her away? Did he know she had nothing to wear until the last minute? Did he know she would’ve waited FOREVER for a taxi and probably missed entrée and main until luckily, the pumpkin arrived? (Pumpkin coach not pumpkin dish.)
No, no he didn’t. You know why?
Because unless you’re a drag queen, Karl Lagerfeld or Napoleon Perdis, and you have a penis – then you are probably incapable of understanding what is involved in getting a woman ready for a formal occasion like a gala ball.
Dude – are you reading????
To be fair – there are a few guys who get it, but they probably had sisters.
So yesterday at about 10.30am, I receive word that we have tickets for the Starlight Paspaley Star Ball. It’s a glitzy affair, and ball gowns are the order of the day. There’s always unreal entertainment, a delicious 4 course meal, dancing, and some amazing and heart warming moments when the children who benefit from such fundraising events share their story. (Tissues please). It’s also attended by the who’s who of charitable elite in Darwin, although I do not count myself in that category.
Did I mention its tomorrow night?
I haven’t attended a formal gig since losing my baby weight, so any appropriate dress is massive around the titty region (sad), and a bit saggy around the tummy and bum (happy). Seriously, I’ve been upstairs for the last hour attacking one of my very good dresses with rusty old safety pins. No time to get anything altered.
I haven’t waxed my legs in WEEKS, I still haven’t attended to my grey regrowth or faint upper lip hair from way back when I posted on airbrushing, and my makeup leaked in my toiletry bag on the way home from Sydney last week.
In addition, I haven’t walked in high heels since the George Michael concert back in February, and I left my Spanx somewhere in Melbourne last year.
Clearly, if anyone at this moment needs a fairy godmother – I DO.
My dream is actually to have a small but experienced group of individuals on my payroll, at my beck and call. I would call them THE PRETTY COMMITTEE.
Much like the scene in Miss Congeniality where Sandra’s character morphs from a snort laughing half man into a pageant ready fox. Comprising the pretty committee would be my stylist, my personal shopper, my hair removal technician, spray tan technician, hair colourist and cutter, hair stylist, makeup artist, and cleaner. (The cleaner is just so I can have the day off while I get ready).
I’m getting carried away and need to get back on track at explaining why MEN DON’T GET IT!
Let me just say this. If I had free access to our finances to accommodate my fit-for-ball status then there would be no issue. But I don’t, and in fact I have NO access for a number of reasons.
Reason number one is that we have been travelling heaps lately, and have more trips planned. Does anyone know how to go about buying Qantas shares?
Reason number two is that I got into trouble for ‘ignoring’ a parking ticket which then accumulated a late fine. I didn’t ignore it, I just kept forgetting.
There are other reasons too. Anyway, I still put the idea of a new purchase out there into JBA* Land, but got a very curt, ”I don’t think so Cindy.”
What about if I do my own primping and wax my own legs, bleach my own moustakka, apply my own fake tan, paint my own fingernails and toes, dye my own hair from a (cough, splutter) packet, and even style it myself on the night?
Ok so right now there are probably some of you going, Umm, Cindy, you should have called this post: Why Cindy Doesn’t get it – chapter 1: It’s called a Budget! You’re being a spoilt princess and I’m sure you’ve got something in your wardrobe that fits.
Yes, I do, and it’s circa 2002, or looks like a sack.
Here’s is what most men don’t understand.
They come home from work an hour before it’s time to leave for the ball. They have a shower, shave, throw on their trusty suit or tux and tie, nice socks, good shoes, bit of cologne and BIBBITY BOBBITY BOO! They’re ready, and no doubt asking us to hurry up please because we’re running late! They think it’s that easy for us but it’s so much harder.
Our preparation starts days in advance, as I have mentioned. They don’t understand what they’re implying when they say, “Just wear your black shoes” when you’re wearing a navy dress. Or when they say, “Just take that bag ” when it’s actually a bag big enough to hold spare nappies and a portable DVD player.
They don’t understand that we DON’T WANT TO LOOK FINE. We want to look amazing. We want to look stunning. We want to be like Cinderella and razzle-dazzle.
Anyway, thank goodness for girl friends. THEY get it. THEY understand.
So my fairy godmothers may not possess a magic wand, but they still help me beyond belief by lending me a dress and by babysitting my daughter at the last minute.
Meanwhile, modesty aside, I know I’ll be looking “ciao mama” tomorrow night. If I didn’t think I would then I wouldn’t bother going. And that’s something else guys don’t get. We’d rather not go than look bad or feel out of place because of what we’re wearing.
Last year my husband wore navy pants with a black suit jacket to a ball. I was mortified. He couldn’t have cared less. And THAT is what men don’t get!
* JBA = Joint Bank Account.