And so it came to pass yesterday that I had to make an appearance at a party celebrating a birthday. And the day had been long and wearisome. Beginning at 6 am, with me shuttling distances that could earn me frequent flier miles to the moon should I put them down on paper and present it to authorities who might consider the same, if they exist. Naturally, by the time one made a grand entrance at said birthday party, one could be found lolling on the wonderful garden wrought iron furniture, glass of beverage in hand, snoring away oblivious to the world. But such bliss was not to be. Will bore the pants off you about the details of the party on the other blog, since that is the kiddy blog. But here, will gasp in awe at the visions of perfection that unravelled themselves before me, making me sink further and further into a corner, until I realised I was on the edge of the roof and couldnt obliterate self any further. This being terrace party.
To start with was the hostess, ferociously fit and toned with not a square centimeter of spare fat anywhere on her body. Perfectly made up face that comes from years of knowing how to do so with professional expertise, and a beautiful face it is to start with. She was impeccable, organised and in complete command of a situation which had over 75 riot act candidate kids in her absolutely impeccably done up home, a situation which would have had me popping Valium by the bucket loads till my eyes rolled.
Summery white casual chic seemed to be the norm, paired with diamonds that were bigger than your irises. Diamonds were everywhere, on armbands, on finger rings, on earrings, rocks that had someone conducted a dacoity on said party would be the GDP of a small nation. Acutely conscious of my store bought ones, with miniscule size and non existent caratage, I consoled myself with the fact that I could be seen with no bling flashing me into the background. Then there were the perfect pedicures and manicures, in matte pink, fire engine red, coral, even orange for one strange soul. Hair streaked violently and gone mad after Holi into a mish mash of wierd colours. Shoes were wedgeheels. Braided wedges, in floral prints, and gold and copper accents. Yes, the summer is truly on us. Florals and whites were the theme du jour. And linen. And some brave ones, who by the sheer power of knowing that they were themselves came in dressed in casual capris and shirts, and flip flops, albeit with the Gucci sling bags, and the Omega watches.
The faces were done to perfection, and these women never sweat. What is the secret, pray tell, are they hiding little pieces of ice in their pant pockets, not likely, everything fits like second skin. Here was I sweating buckets like a fire hydrant exploding, and mopping self up in ungainly manner, knowing that carefully applied powder and base had gone the way of my good intentions. The eyeliner had found its way to corners of my face where nature and my shaky hand never intended it to be. And the stilletoes were dispensed off once I realised that chasing a four year old on a terrace venue requires sterner stuff like ballerinas, and called for the spare pair that always lies in the car.
Surely these visions of perfection had spent the day at the parlour getting hair straightened and styled, make up applied professionally, hair depilated from every surface revealed, face kneaded to flawless perfection, and fingers and toes primped and painted. Surely, they had spent the better part of a couple of days ruminating on which accessories to wear and which bag would go with which shoes, unlike yours truly who slung along everyday workbag, for lack of time and inclination to change bag to chuffed party type clutch.
And they had definitely not applied their makeup in the car, between speedbreakers and signals, resulting in that wierd left lipliner winging out a little more dramatically than intended. Yes, one consoled oneself, one has become wash and wear in more ways than one.