Fairy dust and charcoaled cat-eyes

Last night, I attended a formal dance at Uandme, my first dance studio and still home to "my family" in many ways. The owners were once my landlords. My teacher (even if I haven't taken a lesson with him in years, he is still and will always be "my teacher") and his wife were neighbors and bosom buddies. So many people there have shared the drama the triumphs, the lows and everything in between with me that going back into the thick of it all feels like rediscovering a set-aside portion of my soul. I feel all warm and fuzzy with gratitude to have a community like this, even if I've drifted away a while back to pursue this whole "law" thing. It was one of those experiences I could never properly discuss without waxing maudlin, so I'll simply say that I had a great time reconnecting and then move on to the ever exciting topic of *what I wore*:



My first formal event of the season was one that saw me embracing the understated chic of an LBD, tasteful makeup and shiny, perfectly ironed hair; my second, naturally, could not out-class my fleeting moment of taste so instead I embraced the heroin-chic-fairy-princess look that once graced the catwalks.

The centerpiece of my look was a dress purchased in a panicked tizzy mere minutes before the actual event in question (Adella-fashion: synonymous for put together in the bathroom of Fred Meyers with five minutes to go). Since the great formal-wear-sell off at the Blue Moon last month, I've been unprecedentedly dress-less: the girl who was famous across the state for her cultured menagerie of faaaabulous formals, currently owns three, two of which do not fit. My manicured melange of scandalous silks and satins was the product of toilsome epochs of browsing/sifting/seeking, and it will take another many years to build even a measly approximate of what was defined me for a generation of dancers. The steady availability of tastefully baggy pants (code for "somebody find me a tailor soon, please!") and understated shirts makes it hard to break the bank and return to my formal day, even if I were not painstakingly discriminating about what may grace my closet (floor, most likely, since I am afterall a slob); discriminating, at least, when I am not down to the last possible minute, at which point anything that halfway fits and is within grabbing range will do.

It really made the look, being one of those flowy dresses of the sort that surround the wearer's torso with a smoggy ether of pelucid chiffon (or "chiffon" as I'm fairly certain Fred Meyer's deals exclusively in polyester).  The smoky black layers immediately cut off inches below the hips. The inappropriately high placement of the empire-waist is highlighted with a sprinkle of black and silver sparkles at the high-water-mark of the low and equally diaphonous breasts. I think dresses like these are the ultimate signaling dresses, which explains their popularity with certain model-types at certain status parties. Since it obscures any and all relevant feminine contours in its thick and diaphonous body, it screams "I am so thin, tall and beautiful that I can wear a huge and billowy fairy princess dress and still look the sinewy Sylvan. For 99% of wearers, this is actually not the case and in fact they look more like brobdignagian infants who've grown out of their ballet costumes, but the message is proclaimed with such confidence that people take the dress for its word and so it makes people look "attractive" through sheer (har har, get it, sheer) power of persuasion. Nonetheless, I have already developed a love-hate relationship with it that requires me to acknowledge I enjoy the signals it sends.

To accent my hurried vestiary brilliance, I layered on seventeen pounds of black eyeliner, some obscenely scintillating rhinestone hoops, and another twenty of glitter (it was actually quite the muscular triumph to continue blinking for the rest of the evening). Since I had spent the previous few hours panicking and trying-on-and-casting-off every plausibly "formal" piece of clothing  in a five mile proximity, my hair was appropriately teased to really sell the look. I speak fastidiously, but shockingly enough it coherred in the end and I looked quite nice. Who would have thought? And then, la piece de la sparkly dress:

my silver tights (so torn at the crotch that it was a miracle the rip didn't wander down to a visible legline) and pink tiger print tango stilettos:

Since these are four inch shoes made exclusively for tango (and looking inconcievably leggy), it made for quite the exhilerating ballroom challenge. I am glad to announce that I survived two or three fast lindys and a samba with my aforementioned teacher despite the fact that a wall of line dancers appeared to be ascending upon us with ravenous bota fogos of doom. I am also pleased to announce that my glitter was found on the faces of every one of the party's attendees!