Cyra offered her silk long johns, Carol lent her camera, another Carol knit me mittens and a scarf, and Liz, Leah, and Kristi delivered into my arms a variegated bouquet of gowns and gown-like contenders -- the trying on of which made me grateful my home has no hidden camera.
In a sentence that I imagine is being repeated throughout the land, I say, yes, I'm going to the
Inauguration... with a little help from my friends.
My husband Jonathan, who indefatigably raised money dollar by dollar from the not super rich for the President-Elect and is consequently on the National Finance Committee, is the reason we were invited. Granted, we both have been so bonkers for Barack from the gitgo, we might be able to levitate to Washington, DC without pausing for airport security .
We differ, though. He has barely spent a second on wardrobe matters, apart from trying on a borrowed greatcoat from his tall lanky body double, Cyra's boyfriend Don. He did finally rent a tuxedo, at the last minute. After all, we were not planning to attend any inaugural ball, being mostly interested in witnessing the swearing-in. Then the we-may-never-do-this-again logic prevailed, the credit card came out, and presto, we are going to a ball. We don't yet know which. Still.
For a woman, ball means ballgown.
For this woman, who spends most days writing, at her desk, at home, in yoga pants and long sleeved t-shirts, "ball" conjures high school formal + sophistication. I have nothing fitting that ball bill. I can come up with a great slacks and top outfit. It ain't ballgown. Buying one requires time + money + rationalization I'll wear it again.
Before even conjuring that triple play, my announcement, "We're going to the Inauguration!" brought countless worried responses, "Do you need a dress?"
The first generously offered gownery came from Liz, a woman of majestic proportions and style. She is no name dropper, but I glean that she has spent much of her life in the rarefied world of African-American artistry. Translation: great clothes. Into a trio of her garments I valiantly tried to insinuate myself. A sheer magenta with polka dots was, thankfully, too tight at the hips; the color must look better on brown skin than beige. A complicated fuchsia knit with ropes of rhinestones and a plunging cowl back proved such a challenge to enter that at one point my right arm was straight up, indeed as in yoga triangle pose, rhinestones dangled from my armpit, and the zipper crossed my teeth. (Days after I had extracted myself, a visitor commented when I held up the dress, "Hmm. A bit Dynasty?" If only, I thought. I could not pull off Dynasty. Liz could pull off Dynasty. ) Liz's final offering (apart from intricate evening purses she'd tossed in) was a gunmetal green dress with spaghetti straps, narrow waist, and full floor length skirt. I loved it. If I could have gone from B to D, it may have loved me, too.
The next offerings (including a swirly skirted black wool coat that shall robe me days and nights) came from Leah, champ of thrift stores and flea markets. It took us two trips to get all her loans into my car. Later, shadowed by my own rack of unballworthiness, I immersed myself in her treasures: Chinese embroidery, voluminous hot pink, purple satin, oversized jackets with velvet buttons. Everything felt great. Nothing looked right.
By then I was whining to myself. What is my style? Why don't I need fancy clothes? Why can't I find my body double? Does Michelle have this problem?
Into the sartorial breach came Kristi, who mentioned having bought "an Armani on sale." Aha! One evening, she plied me with a cache of tailored dressy dresses she shares with her sister. (New whine: Why doesn't my sister live closer to me in Mill Valley, California than Bovina Center, New York?) Kristi's clothes began, so to speak, to take shape. Columns of opaque black with overlays of sheer black, addenda of delicate jackets hiding less than successful triceps curls. This could work. This would pack.
Confident, I later held a living room fashion show for my husband. Twirl, hip jut, jacket hooked on finger. Result? Let's just say the we-may-never-do-this-again logic prevailed again. Shouldn't he have known to say I looked great in everything?
Finally, after weeks of loans, frets, and assessments, and honed treasured borrowings (plus hardy wools from my east coast era), I am ready. Perhaps I am even ahead of the curve. Marg just e-mailed from New Mexico, "I'm calling together a committee of friends to help get me pulled together." Girlfriend, I hear you.
Yet I know I might not be Obamarella at the ball at all if it weren't for DC girlfriends who offered something more precious than couture. From Leila, an air mattress, from Lucy, a fold out couch.
Alison Owings, author of Frauen/German Women Recall the Third Reich and Hey, Waitress!/ The USA from the Other Side of the Tray, is working on an oral history of Native Americans about life today. www.alisonowings.com.