Saturday Night at the Ball

Once again, the world changes....

Dear Ginny Godmother,

Thank you for bringing several fancy dresses for me to wear. Thank you for wearing a dress that was cut nearly to your navel, sleeveless, with a ruffley thing going on down the front, and tall black boots. It made me feel brave. Thank you for talking me into the one with the high neck, below the knee hem, in black doubleknit. Thank you for insisting that I could, too, go without a bra. I didn't mind SO much that it was sleeveless, but, Godmother, IT HAD NO BACK.

It was cut so low that I was in danger of showing butt clevage. You know, don't you, Godmother, that I would not have been allowed to leave the house showing butt clevage. I probably wouldn't have left the bedroom, and you'd have attended the event on your own.

Together, we had almost enough material for one whole dress. Unless we sewed it together wrong, and then we'd have had no dress at all.

I loved the tiny little band of sequins across the center back, and the tiny little band of sequins around each shoulder so the front would stay up. I loved the tall black Rocket Dog boots, and I loved how you put my hair up. I wear my hair up a lot, but it looked fancy when you did it.

It was fun to be dubbed "smokin', baby," even if it was you who did the dubbing.

The man who insists he is not a prince looked at me, and with quiet intensity said, "You look beautiful, Cyb."

That probably meant more to me than all the rest of the compliments combined.

Wasn't the wine wonderful, Godmother? All the glasses of wine were wonderful. As was the (yes, it was, the cast so committed and focused, the final number so touching you had tears in your eyes to match the ones in mine) entertainment. I thanked my non-prince afterwards, and he said, "Stop crying, Cyb."

I always cry, especially at beautiful things. Is that wrong? It can't be wrong. I don't mind being touched deeply enough to cry. Really, I don't.

After a glass of port, I embraced the man who will always be a prince to me. He permitted it, and did not let go right away, though his princess was in the room. We moved gently together. I said, "Look, we're dancing," and he said, "Yes. We're dancing." We'd never danced before. There was no music. It was beautiful. Good thing my mascara was waterproof.

Later, I fed grapes to his princess. He wanted to take her home in his pumpkin carriage, and shooed me away, sending me to feed grapes to you, which I did. Do you remember? Though they weren't fermented, they were luscious in their round juiciness.

Thank you, Godmother, for a wonderful evening. Thank you for riding with me to the place where I danced with our chauffer to a tune I don't remember. It's marvelous to be able to dance again. I know you understand this, more than most. Thank you for coming home with me, for having tea and toast with me in the morning. Oddly, I was not hungover, though my hair said otherwise. Hungover hair.

I brushed it.

And I knew where both of my shoes were.

On the ground. Along with my feet.

Love you, you beautiful, wonderful creator of dreamy evenings.

xox

Cybierella