I’m turning 56 this week and saw this invitation to a “Fancy for No Reason” party in New York. I want to make a big deal out of birthdays, which is dumb and leads to disappointment because I went into labor with one of my kids on my birthday, which falls the same month as Mother’s Day and every prom, baseball tournament, choir/band/theater end of year performance and graduation. I was pretty much ensured lifelong birthday erasure. I saw the invite to the party, found an emotional support New York friend who always says, “I’ll do the fun thing” and said yes.
The party was hosted by a fun “eccentric friend” online influencer @jessiejoles I’d only recently started following. The idea was simple: get dressed to the nines for absolutely no reason, have a few drinks, dance to a DJ, do crafts, meet fun women, have fun. Cost: $20. The closer I move to 60, the more “why the fuck not” attitude I have. I always think of that “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple” poem. My life’s version seems to be a more “When I am an old woman I shall come out of the closet, get high, fuck shit up and be chaotic” thing, but I’m doing my best to navigate it in only the best harm-reduction way.
I had just the dress. I bought it at a vintage clothing shop here in Maryland back in 2010 or so, and for no reason other than I was in love. It’s a mid-century floor-length ballgown. I’m obsessed with everything mid-century (see also: my writing chair). The gown is handmade, the material is a buttery, lemony heavy brocade material with metallic threading and for some reason reminds me of a 1950s version of the Scarlet O’Hara Gone With the Wind scene where she’s broke and needs a dress so the curtains need to get ripped down. In my mind, I call it the Mid-century Curtain Dress. It has an empire waist with too-narrow boob shelf for my tits, a divided “cape” outer layer over the main straight fitted section, and a side zipper that always catches my skin because I really have to suck-it-up-buttercup to zip this girlie. But I love it. I’d only worn it once to a party in Manhattan back in 2012 when I spoke at the national blogging conference, after attending a cocktail party at Martha Stewart’s office. This time, I added a period fascinator floral headpiece I found on eBay for under $20.
I watched a YouTube video on how to do hair “pin curls.” I am not a girly-girl. I don’t wear makeup. When I have to leave my zone of flannels and baseball hats to get dressed up and go anywhere, I call it “being in drag.” I understand this is probably politically incorrect but as a member of the queer community, I’m respectfully appropriating the term because it feels the most accurate for someone who doesn’t own a blow dryer. In one surreal party moment, I got “red-carpet posed” at the bar by a fabulous New York fashionista. I was taught how to stand with my hips, waist, tits and shoulders in four completely different geographical locations (see photo); a complicated stance I wish I’d known all my life.
The “Fancy For No Reason” party was a blast. My friend looked stunning in a handmade headpiece, I loved seeing everyone at the party in a glittering cornucopia of fashion. The guests were a diverse mix of creative women (with a few men around to… hold purses?). The hostess is a delightful fairy godmother who brings the magic of playing dress-up as kids back to us as adults, when we need it just as much. I think we all had fun doing the “Soul Train” dance line. I loved meeting new friends and can’t wait to go back to the vintage clothing shop to find some drag for next year’s event.