What to Wear

We arrived late to the house with appetizers for the church's Christmas progressive dinner.

"What do I wear?" I nagged my beloved husband earlier. In the closet organized by he and son Ty Buddington, I pouted and dallied. I finally chose a black pants outfit with a muted gold and red jacket.

After hasty appetizers, hubby and I traveled to church for the main meal, but skipped the trip to the desserts. Back home my soul gnawed hungry, though I experienced good food and good people chats. I could spread blame, concoct all manner of aspersions, but the blame rests on me and my self-deceptions.

This past weekend I stood in my closet, this time, in jeans, knit shirt, the unseen sackcloth and ashes of confessed misgivings.

"What should I wear?" I again bugged my beloved.

We did not look forward to his company Christmas party after hearing about last year's, a nicotine-hazed night suffused in eau de Tequila with coarse dashes of innuendos. This year the diverse employees doubled, so the party would be bigger. But would it be better?

Inwardly regretting last week's progressive dinner's pouts, I prayed, prayed, prayed to God as this second party's time neared. I hid my sackcloth demeanor under makeup, a glittery red, bolero jacket, and black cocktail dress. My beloved looked dashing in his dark corduroy blazer, olive shirt, and tie.

We settled at an unoccupied table for four where a couple joined us and gave credence to the lyric, "Blessed be the ties that bind." Both my beloved and the husband were new engineers to the company, each having survived five months unemployed. Since they worked on separate projects this dinner was their first time together.

Our foursome watched others scamper outside jiggling glasses and cigarette lighters. The engineer's wife shared that when she drank a glass of liquor, there was "no moderation [in the consequences]." She stuck to her iced water. My beloved only nursed one glass of wine the whole night, and I, my one Sprite. The gentleman across the table did likewise with his beer, drinking, instead Southern sweet tea.

Sometimes we mingled with other guests who had joined their tables into parallel lines of curious apartheid. At our table we held hands to pray before we grabbed our forks and fillet of steak knives. We discussed the spiritual, familial, and quirky connects. After the meal we gals sang harmony with the party entertainer, an amazing guitarist, who poured forth the intricate verses to what I confessed were "those heathen songs of our youth." My new gal pal laughed and kept singing. While she and her husband watched, I nudged my beloved up for a two-step, a Texas stroll, a couple of swings, ... no rock and roll gyrations. This was, after all, the Deep South, Baptist land.

We drove home, much later than anticipated. My beloved engineer puzzled: Why did we enjoy this dreaded event more than the previous weekend social?

I told him what I did before this party. Before I checked my closet, I let God check me via prayer.
Sackcloth, prayer shawls...what to wear before you go anywhere.