"It'll be what? I'm sorry, is that the frickin' word of the day or something? Did you just complete a Wordly Wise? Who the hell says cathartic?"
"Common, cousin, don't be a dilettante."
"A WHAT?!!"
Brother walks into the building shaking his head. Cousin continues to fume about brother's vocab selection. The date is December 23, 2006. The scene takes place outside the Mayflower Hotel in downtown DC. The event discussed is Mrs. Simpson's annual Debutante Ball.
Last night my brothers, cousin, and college buddy all donned tuxes and headed to the annual debutante ball. This year I followed them dressed in a simple cocktail dress and pumps and planned to have a drink with them at the bar and depart. For the first time in seven years, I would not dance away the evening of December 23rd. My friend Will, who's deployed to Afghanistan just now, has been my escort for almost every year I attended. In a mass email, he bemoaned his general inability to participate in Christmas customs this year but the debutante got first mention. The thing is, it's a really frickin' good time.
Normally I'm shy about sharing that I embraced the old tradition of "coming out" into "society" though these days it's really just an excuse to have a big party around the holidays. Back in the day, it meant young ladies were truly eligible to begin seeing young men romantically. Some might argue that to continue this tradition shows pretension and snobbery; they could be right. But really it's hard to fault those who cling nostalgically to the gentler years of American society. As Mr. Spacetropic notes, "It's a just frightening to think 13 year old girls [today] see so few young women in the media pantheon that attained fame with a college degree, tough standards, intellect, or talent that they worked hard to develop." Pop culture really drags us all into the mud so sometimes an evening spent in silk heels, enormously full skirts, and cumberbuns feels rather refreshing.
So a former deb gets overserved, but she's got elders around to chide her inappropriate behavior. Fathers' coat tails flip in the evening breeze as they sneak out for a cigarette before the ceremonies begin but they sure look proud of the pretty daughters hanging off their arms later. My brothers ogle girls but they're using big words to describe their behavior and my cousin still acts like a cynical jerk but he looks nice doing it. There's just something about having a glass of champagne while listening to a snappy band and watching polished guests mill about a swank hotel that makes a girl feel like she's shittin' in high cotton even if such an occasion transpires once a year.
Perhaps this love for things such as balls and champagne seems incongruous with wanting to live in Haiti for a while. I'll argue that it's just part of the same romantic, idealistic nature. Think what you will but judge not lest ye be judged... and now, at least, you know one of my two secrets.
The other is that I have two ferrets named Ferret Fawcett and Buttercup (who will not join me in Haiti).
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