Champagne and Heels

I’ve been working pretty much non-stop for a couple weeks now, so when my husband suggested getting dressed up this weekend to attend the ’80s Champagne Retrospectical at Beauty Bar I kind of jumped at the chance thinking it was a great way to cut loose a little while drunkenly singing old Madonna songs in public. Plus I love that Beauty Bar has glittery walls.

I've decided this color goes with everything.

So we spent the afternoon running errands, shopping and watching a movie while I tried on pretty much everything in my closet that wasn’t on work rotation, looking for something that was ‘80s inspired, without being anachronistic.

Finally I settled on a leopard print dress with a short circle skirt, and was secretly freaking out about what shoes to wear because I knew we were walking. Ultimately though it didn’t matter because when I finally put the dress on, I walked around a few minutes, and suddenly the fact that it was cheap and bought on sale reared its ugly discount head when the zipper split, completely pulling off track.

I swear the dress wasn’t too tight.

As I cussed like a sailor I decided on another outfit, tried it on, and my husband, who will probably never make another suggestion again, said, “Try that top with your black cigarette pants. They’re a little dressier.”

Kissing shoes. 

Problem was I couldn’t find my black cigarette pants. Anywhere. I tore through the laundry, the closet, the other closet, three drawers, a pile of dry-cleaning and even a bag of stuff slated for Goodwill. Nothing. As I continued looking I got more and more agitated, even more annoyed with the fact that not only could I not find the pants that I have now decided I had to wear, but I also didn’t know what shoes to wear with that outfit. Then I found a spot on my top and just about broke down in tears, which were laced with word combinations that would have made a sailor blush and made my husband retreat to another part of the house.

Have I mentioned I’ve been a little stressed out lately?

Finally I settled on going a little ‘80s country club in a pastel, ruffled skirt and matching top, which were perfectly finished off with a pair of attention-getting orange heels. Luckily, even with the outfit breakdown, we still managed to get to the bar in time to enjoy some of the free champagne and get a little tipsy before starting in on the real cocktails.

I also got compliments on my shoes all night, which lessened the sting of losing those pants and not wearing what I wanted. A girl stopped me on the street, another slurred at me in the bar, and one guy  insisted on showing me his shoes, even though they were a ratty old pair of red Keds, but good for him on being proud of them.

All night, I danced, walked, got booze spilled on me (what else is new), sang Madonna songs, and Sunday, as I felt to effects of my good time and put away my orange heels, I renewed my search for the black cigarette pants, which are somehow still missing. At least I'm a little less stressed about it though.