I’m not a very good girl. Oh, I don’t mean that I’m bad to the bone or that I’m hankering for a spanking. I simply mean that as a youth I was a tomboy, as a wife I was one of the guys and as an adult I prefer electronics to clothes! Not very girl-like, right? Well…

Once upon a time two weeks ago, I came home to find an invitation to the glamorous Oviat Room for my friend’s birthday. It was beautifully embossed, with words that said ‘dinner, dancing, live orchestra, formal, tails and top hats.’ Oh my God! Fantasy, Romance, CLOTHES! Two totally conflicting thoughts were smashing around my head. Pure pleasure. Because this event is every girl’s dream. Pure panic. Because this event is every girl’s dream. And I’m not a very good girl!

I had to get a grip. My survival skills kicked in and I started digging in my closet. Under the motorcycle boots and the overalls, the 10 pairs of black jeans (including my summer PASTEL blacks) and the tee shirts, I find my post-trousseau. You know, the box of stuff you’ve collected that you can’t possibly part with…or wear… AFTER the marriage ends? Foofey scarves, shirts with embroidery on them… leggings and sporty things with girlie accents on them that well meaning friends gave me, to sort of trick me into wearing some semblance of fashion. Eureka! I find something! A black satin long flowy skirt that’s skintight at the top and wider at the bottom and a black top with thin, very feminine straps. Whew. I’ve actually test driven this outfit to the Academy Awards one time and I KNOW it has a totally acceptable turning radius and it’s very aerodynamic. I actually love it. My girlfriends think it’s too plain.

OK. I’ll accessorize. Diamonds. Check. Gloves. Check. Hair: up. Nape: exposed. Now comes the shopping. Shoes: The mule, the pump, the slide, the t-strap. The lingo alone makes my head spin. Manolo Blahnik, Via Spiga, Sesto Meucci, and Rangoni. The brand names make me crave Italian food! I stop for Pizza. Next the Foundation Department. That’s girl argot for undergarments. I start to hyperventilate at the thought of panty hose and shapewear. What the hell is shapewear? (Something you need after Pizza!) Smoothers, waist nippers, the slim slip, the corset strip, the belly busters and thigh shapers. Now for the items that ADD shape. Full breast enhancers, water pads, self-adhesive crescents? Wait a minute! Wait just a Cinderella-Carl-Jung-Joseph-Campbell-women-have-no-self-esteem God damn minute! This is ridiculous. I may not be a very good girl, but I’m a very good women…and it’s about time we women give ourselves a little more self respect or else we might as well just dress in our own self imposed burqas and give up the ghost! And let’s not even discuss the thought of undressing all that faux beauty in front of a man.

Oh my God! The man! I almost forgot the invitation said YOU AND A GUEST! Now I’m in a new kind of tizzy.

There is a guy, we’ll call him Joseph, who was my number one choice and the next nine choices, except he doesn’t dance. Hmmmmm. #11) Boy Next Door, loves to dance but oh-so-boring. #12) My dance-til-dawn gay friend. #13) My stand by Internet Buddy. #14) Solo. I’m thinking 12. But wait. Would I be at The Ball with 11, 12 or 13 and be dreaming of #1? You bet! And then it hits me. If I don’t go for #1, I’ll never get #1. Not at work, not in life and definitely not at The Ball!

So I take a risk. I describe the party to Joseph and before I even get to the dancing part, he’s jumping up and down on the sidewalk. “Oh me, take me!” “But you said ‘I won’t dance!’” “No, no! “ he says, “I said I don’t dance … but I will. Look!” He grabs me with his cigarette dangling and spins me around the sidewalk like a very modern day, hyper, more vigorous version of Fred Astaire. Surprise, surprise. I’m going with #1!

I no longer think I’m a bad girl. I may not be what you think I should be… but I’m an all natural, risk taking, trumpet skirted, spaghetti strapped, aerodynamic-comfortable-outfit kinda girl and I’m very ready for The Ball! Are you?