I thought this blog post was going to be about seeing those Lincoln Center jazz cats here in Milwaukee this past Sunday--and how young Milwaukee native Dan Nimmer really got the spirit on the piano on "Weary Blues." About how going to hear jazz ends up being--or should (I hope there's a special place in hell for people who go to evening concerts in jeans and white athletic shoes)--a style event. Because jazz cats do have a history of looking sharp and being sophisticated.
Um, but it's not. It's about me. Well, sort of about me. I realized my Sunday preparations would be great material for the fictionalized doings of a thirtysomething who realizes jazz gigs are the perfect place to meet the kind of guys who like her. That made everything sort of meta-hilarious. But, like, really, when am I going to write a novella? So, it's a blog post now. Enjoy!
The Wynton Marsalis--er, Jazz at Lincoln Center--concert was my own personal Oscars. Though, of course, there were no awards given out. And it was a concert. But in the preparing of dresses; fixing of hair by professionals; and hours-long toilette, it was similar. Though, it's true the toilette consisted mostly of me pumicing my feet long and hard enough to break a sweat and some home microderm (read: loosing the pumice on my forearms, calves, and thighs). And also true that my auto-maquillage consisted of Burt's Bees blotting sheets and a Laura Mercier lipstick quite past its expiration. To say nothing of the mani-pedi for which I pressed a toenail clipper into service.
In true Oscar night form, though, I was undecided about what to wear up to the last minute--affected, as almost any woman is aware, by the interlocking relationships of weather, footwear, hosiery, outerwear, etc. Each element was hard-won in its own right. The wrestling of the ends of three braids into one chic clip. The coat choice. The shoe selection. Other people may lie about it--but sometimes comfort and a look are mutually exclusive. There is a season for everything. Sometimes you choose comfort and ruin your silhouette. Sometimes you choose to look ravishing and can't really breathe. It's all about the interlocking relationships. I chose the Doc Marten in the end because there was that snow over rain business outside--and my Danskos would have put me in a sorry state. Though, happily, it turned out ok--Soviet granny is my look for this winter, after all.
For the most harrowing part of the evening Meryl Streep had nothing on me. All factors considered, I chose--surprise, surprise!--the ever-trusty, ever-tightening, spangly black dress. My dismay at finding my dress wouldn't zip--oh, how can it be told? Oh, god, no more sweets ever! I really have to get all Madonna about abdominal exercises now! I thought. Woe! The psychological trauma of one's perfectly proportioned go-to dress...The dress in which one could rest assured one looked great. The dress, not to belabor the point, that was all but magic because of said assurance. And ten minutes before I was to get on the bus for Lincoln Center Jazz, yet? World, world, oh, world! It's hatred of your ups and downs that makes us reconciled....What's that? Dress wasn't zipping because it was caught on my slip? Zzzh! There she goes! I'm not fat! Clearly, there is a god and he or she is in his or her heaven.