There is a very good reason I rarely wear my halterneck dress. It’s because I don’t have a proper bra for it and going without a bra makes me feel like two jellies on a plate and that there is just one press-stud between me and a genuine “Zapped” moment.
And yet I wore the halterneck dress (bra-less) to the small “Melbourne Cup Day” gathering at KT’s house yesterday. I guess I figured that, since there were only going to be a handful of close friends in attendance, nobody could get hurt.
However, I hadn’t taken The Pixie’s Tuesday night dancing class into consideration when choosing my outfit. Normally, I might have let The Pixie skip the class so we could continue making merry at KTs but a recent newsletter had stressed that no child was to miss a class between now and the concert in four weeks’ time. It was italicised and maybe even underlined. And everyone knows that once you’ve italicised and underlined something, it’s The Law.
I also hadn’t taken into consideration the fact that, although my husband drove us all, it would be me that would take The Pixie into the class. Nor had I foreseen that my husband would pull a swifty on me and I would find myself agreeing to walk home from the dance class so he could run some errands. Or that I would somehow agree to take Tiddles McGee with me, too.
“But hey!” I reassured myself, as I walked towards the hall in my Melbourne Cup finery. “Everyone gets dressed up and has a flutter and a tipple on Cup Day. Why, it’s positively un-Australian not to!”
Well, try telling that to the mothers at the dance school. There wasn’t a wilting fascinator or over-jauntisized hatinator amongst them. And no-one was smelling of wine or slurring their speech or flashing their cleavage in a “Hello Boys!” fashion. Not a single one. It was like they’d all spent the day in a state of active readiness for taking their daughter to the dance class and not done it in an “Oh, shit! Ballet’s on in fifteen minutes” type addendum to their drinking activities.
I also hadn’t reckoned on The Pixie having a violent change of heart about going into her class. Or that she would cry and cling to me, begging me for “one last huggle” and pull so hard on my dress that I would feel that sickening “click” of the single press-stud at the top of the dress coming undone. Or that when I squatted down in front of her in order to prevent the inevitable next tug from pulling down the whole dress, that she would do that annoying thing where she climbs onto me while I’m squatting, sending us both sprawled on the floor in front of a room full of onlookers, with one of my breasts making a bid for freedom.
Of course, by the time I’d finally managed to sort out my dress and prise The Pixie off me and into her class, the invisible batton had been passed onto McGee and he cried and carried on so much that I ended up having to carry all 15kg of him all the way home whilst wearing heels and the only good thing about it all was that he at least covered my cleavage. Which is more than you can say for my dress.
Next Cup Day, I’m definitely wearing a muumuu.