I went to a Sweet 16 party Saturday night as a somewhat last minute addition to the guest list. Had I received an invitation in the mail (are you reading this, SPV?), perhaps I would've had some clue as to what I was in for. As it was, all I knew was that the birthday girl requested that guests dress in black. I can do black. When SPV e-mailed me the directions, I saw that the name of the restaurant was TPC Jasna Polana. In hindsight, I realize that I simply assumed it was a restaurant.
I guess I've never been to a Sweet 16. What do I know? A friend threw me a surprise 16th birthday party (I hate surprises) attended by seven or eight other girls. I think we probably drank Tab and ate Ring Dings. I recall that a few boys crashed later that evening. Among my gifts was a Playgirl magazine, which ended up, forgotten, under my bed. That is, until the day my dad and older brother J were getting ready to install some bookshelves in my room and pulled my bed away from the wall. I didn't know what I'd done, but the roar coming from my bedroom was a pretty clear indication that I was in a whole lot of trouble. I'm not sure my dad believed me when I told him I didn't even remember that the magazine was there. My brother just sat snickering in the corner like Muttley from "Wacky Races".
Anyway, I was pretty sure that Jasna Polana must be some sort of Polynesian restaurant. I figured the place would be decorated with strings of colored lights and that the kids would perform karaoke and do the Limbo and drink virgin pina coladas. I was really looking forward to sipping a mai tai out of a potbellied ceramic buddha. I put on a nice black blouse, bought especially for the occasion, my favorite dark jeans (which I think hide my spreading flesh but don't) and my new black boots. I thought I looked pretty good. I didn't think I'd be an embarrassment.
I started wondering if I might be mistaken when I left the Princeton business district and my GPS said I was still several miles away from the tiki bar. I decided it must be one of those roadside joints. Oh, this is going to be so much fun! Two miles later, as I drove down a quiet, stately residential street and pulled up to the gates of the exclusive golf club, I started to sweat. As I got out of my car and spied all the adorable 16-year-old girls in their little black strapless dresses and rhinestone encrusted sandals, I knew I was doomed. Where were their grass skirts? "Drat, drat, and double drat!" I flung my shawl around my shoulders and attempted my best sashay through the cobblestoned courtyard and past the lit fountains, up the wide front steps and into the marbled foyer. But when I saw SPV, mother of the birthday girl, in formal attire, well, I let her have it.
I have an ongoing argument with my daughter A about whether it's better to be under or overdressed. I maintain that being overdressed is preferable, but she insists it's the reverse. If all young women feel that way, then perhaps the younger crowd thought I looked okay that night. All I know is that from now on I'll take nothing for granted. I'll dress to the nines whether the invitation says "creative black tie" or "casual chic". No one, least of all me, knows what those directives mean anyway.
Dress to kill, I say.
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