STEPPIN' OUT

It's that time of year again, weddings weddings weddings, not to mention fancy-pants gala dinners and parties, and that can only mean one thing...dressing UP.
I hate dressing up. I hate clothes, I hate heels, and I hate the chit-chat and small talk.
And I'm one of the old ladies at weddings now, so I can't get shit-faced and boogie like I used to, with like-minded friends. My knees hurt too much, for one, and I don't want to be the embarrassing drunk old woman. But I am so OVER the shuffling round and round in circles! What IS with that?
Anyway, I might be able to get out of dancing horas but I still have to get 'oysgeputzt' as the occasion demands.

And the basic underpinning of the dressing up thing is what used to be called a 'foundation garment', with its connotations of concrete, bricks and mortar, but is now referred to euphemistically as a 'Shaper'. Popular brands are Nancy Ganz and Spanx.  Another name for this sort of elasticised body suit is a 'teddy'. I will never understand how such a soft and cuddly name can apply to such a restrictive garment, with hook-and -eye fasteners in the crotch, because snaps just won't take the strain. 'Teddy'. What a cruel joke. Spanx at least is more honest.
Because these things are implements of torture, or at least, Bondage and Discipline. Once you squeeze into one of those items, provided you can still breathe, you might as well get the stiletto boots and the riding crop to furnish the outfit. Might as well share the pain, because you already look like a dominatrix.
Of course, the paradox of these garments is that the ones who don't need them fit into them, but those of us who do need them, can't.

Then there's the other thing. The modesty thing. The covering up arms and décolletage. So you buy a nice outfit that fits and everything, but THEN you have to wear the Metallicus or Vigorella or whatever under garment, with the sleeves and the neckline, ON TOP of the shaper. Wait! Did I mention the hosiery?
Right, so it's the control top panty hose, THEN the shaper, THEN the Metallicus thing. AND THEN, a slip of some kind, because the actual dress is probably sheer. Layer upon layer upon layer.
By this stage, I am feeling like a menopausal super heroine. I often strike poses and sing 'Wonder Woman!' while looking in the mirror, feeling overheated.
And only now- the dress. With a sticky zip in some unreachable place. By the time that's all in order, I'm ready to lie down. But NO! The shoes.
I have almost, but not quite, given up on high heels. They kill my feet, my knees, my back, and if you don't wear them all the time, you walk like a klutz and descending stairs is life-threatening. But, DAMMIT, they make your legs look good. They make the whole get-up look good. And it's only a smidge more pain anyway. So I take 2 nurofen and put on the heels, and carry some ballet flats in a little bag in case of being crippled.

The make-up, trying to hang on to the illusion of youthful radiance, and not really succeeding. The sheitel, flowing shiny locks, such as no woman my age would ever have (according to a daughter who told me this a few years ago. Thanks!).

The Jewellery. When I'm feeling particularly annoyed at having to go to some fancy function, I wear my special pearls. They are enormous baroque white pearls which I received as a 30th wedding anniversary gift. They are so big, I feel like Wilma Flintstone. But they are pretty impressive. So I call them my F#%& YOU pearls. As in, you may be thinner, you may be younger, you may wear heels with insouciance, but F#%& YOU, I've got these amazing pearls.

So I pull myself into a semblance of a glamorous older woman and off I go, tottering on my elegant heels, taking shallow breaths,  and wishing the evening over. Oh, maybe I will have a few wines. To forget the pain.

Mazel tov! Such a lovely evening. Beautiful speeches! Only simchas! Mwa Mwa.
OY.