A long, long time ago, when my husband was just my boyfriend, he was a bouncer in a bar. (It worked out pretty well; I liked to drink, and I always had a ride home.)
We’d been dating just over a year, when he invited me to the bar’s staff Christmas party. I knew some of the other bouncers, and a waitress or two, so I was even looking forward to it. Weeks ahead of time, I made Owen ask what the dress code was. “Whatever. Just don’t wear your bouncer shirt,” was the response he got from a co-worker.
We get to the restaurant.
And I realize Owen asked the wrong person about the dress code.
I’m wearing jeans and a button down shirt.
The other girls? Long, formal dresses.
I was beyond mortified.
I tried to make the best of it, tried to pretend it didn’t matter.
I was lined up at the bar, getting drinks. In front of me, a girl in a black velvet, floor length gown.
“I mean, can you believe that? God, how cheesy. At least my people dressed up!”
One of her friends gave her the “look over your shoulder, idiot” eyes.
She turned around, stopped smiling. Put the smile back on. Silently dared me to say something.
I looked at the ground. I didn’t want her to feel bad.
It’s funny how time, distance, maturity make these things fade, become less important.
And sometimes, they don’t.
Man, I hope that bitch got syphilis.