Holiday Survival Glam
As we looped around the pool at Southern Hills Golf Club, the Red Baron dropped me at the service entrance. Not on purpose, we were actually lost. The directions given by a security guard at the front gate were sketchy at best and since we were late, I hoofed it through the catering staging area.
Last night marked the fifth holiday party in a week. Five down, two to go. I felt dizzy.
Still a little unsure of my bearings, I asked one of the club staff to point me in the right direction. He repeated the last name of our host, weaved through a series of back hallways and pointed to the wine cellar. “Perfect,” I said and thanked him.
The Baron caught up with me a few minutes later and after straightening his Snoopy tie we strolled into the main dining area.
Everyone stopped and looked at us. Not one familiar face. Wrong party. I smiled as politely as I could and wished the group of strangers a happy holiday. The Baron and I backed out of the room.
“Weave and bob,” I chanted. Weave and bob. Inspirational words from Mohammad Ali streamed through my head.
As we hurried through the club’s reception area, I heard a strange snap, like a rubber band smacking bare skin.
When we finally arrived at our celebration, the xylophone rang and we slid into our seats. Snap. The odd, vibration twanged again.
As I turned to ask the server if he heard the noise, the elastic that bound my massive teased ponytail uncoiled and shot the server square in the forehead. “Oh my goodness,” I whispered. His hand swatted the severed rubber band from his brow and asked if I wanted some more wine. (A rhetorical question right?)
Seconds later, my unsecured ponytail-bomb tracked down the back of my neck. Weave and bob. I thought and then realized I left my studded clutch in the car. I scanned the table. Three-foot flower arrangement, votive candles, Christmas crackers, nothing that could tame my curly mound. Unwilling to accept defeat, my eyes drifted over the multi-layered place setting to a beaded napkin ring. I shimmied the sparkly rope from my linen and yanked on the ring. Flexible. Fantastic.
I glanced at the woman across from me, the hostess, held the napkin holder in front of my face and flashed a ‘do you mind’ look.
She slanted her eyes to the table decoration and gracefully nodded.
I quickly double-twisted the shimmery tousle and secured my updo.
Weave and bob.
*Note to self: If it comes down to a cell phone or a rubber band, go for the elastic.
E.L. Chappel author of Risk
Follower of Macgyver fashion
aka The Glamorous Wife