Woman in the gold dress

Jason and I tried a restaurant that’s been on our bucket list Saturday night. As luck would have it, I sat facing the entryway of a private room towards the back of the restaurant. The place didn’t seem appropriate for kids, but I’ve discovered there are some parents who see no place as off limits and my dining experience will be rerouted to fit their needs. (That’s all the time I plan to spend on my soapbox about that particular topic). As we perused the cocktail and food menu, I noticed the private room all set for an impending party. What caught my eye most was a little girl all dressed up in a twirly dress and her hair done just-so. She was arranged like a perfect little doll. The back of the room was covered in mirrors. I related to her young girly spirit as she frequently prissed and preened in front of the mirror. She would pose, study her appearance, and occasionally spin. I could see her enjoyment as her skirt caught a little air. I was a bit of a tomboy growing up, but I always enjoyed a good twirly dress and my femininity, so I faulted her for none of it.

I gasped the moment I saw the little girl bring her glass to the server assigned to the party and told her she needed a refill. Now, I have STRONG feelings about this. I was a waiter for years. I’ve been a mother longer. Having someone’s child order me around was ALWAYS the lowest part of the job. As a parent and as a respectful person, who recognizes ANOTHER ADULT, my children are to tell me what they need when dining out. I will decide if they actually need it and I will be the one to speak with the waiter. They are to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ only. The girl spoke to the waiter as if she, herself, were a grown woman; as if they were on equal footing. It just took me aback. I’d guess this girl 11 years old. I felt bad for that server. I’ve been her.

I began to have mixed emotions about this little girl. Jason, by this point, had noticed I had the attention span of a gnat for the conversation going on at our own table. At this point, he was starting to look over his shoulder and get invested, too. Eventually, the little girl tired of the private room, even with all its mirrored charms. There was a path from the room that lead right by our table, through the main dining room, and into the bar area. She decided now is the time to run that path back and forth to go talk to dad and then back to the room. Dad’s exactly what I expected. Tall, silver fox, sports jacket, clutching fine bourbon. He was aloof, went where he was told, and paid the bill. The little girl made several trips along this path. We enjoyed private laughs as we noticed the elder couples out for a quiet dinner clutching their pearls and giving one another obvious annoyed eye contact as she whizzed by again and again. They would lean in to one another and whisper. We didn’t need to guess what was being said. It was obvious, “That little girl’s parents need to tell her to sit down”. These people have raised their kids, done their time. No one thought this little routine was cute. This was an upscale place so we’re not talking about an Applebee’s, here. You're paying more so you expect a certain QUIET experience. 

It was on her 5^th trip back through the restaurant, Jason and I both said, “Where’s her mother?” As if by magic, mom appeared. Oh, and she didn’t disappoint. Mom had been tucked somewhere in the back room all along. No way she’d made an appearance before then; I would have noticed her, believe me! Mom was stunning. She was very blonde, very tan, very toned, wearing a gold lame halter dress, with a tight grip on a glass of pinot grigio. (Think: Ramona Singer.) She emerged from the room with an air about her like she was sufficiently ready to grace the world with her presence. She stood tall, proud, ready to be seen. She made her way through the restaurant to greet the guests gathering at the bar. As more guests arrived, the little girl would pass by with other girls around her age into the private room. As the moms and dads sipped highballs, I watched the little girls begin a lengthy photoshoot. They went to the mirrors and carefully constructed pose after pose. They would take the photo, assess, redesign, and go again. Their poses weren’t seductive, but they weren’t childlike, either. No shots of silly candid grins caught in the middle of a giggle. Just girls perfectly posed, some not even smiling. They knew their angles and everything. Just, perfect. Painstakingly perfect.

As the guests began to make their way into the private dining room, I sat in awe at the fashion. Apparently gold lame is in for this crowd, as it passed by in many forms. My favorite, of which, being a jumpsuit. It was Louboutins, extensions of all kinds, and Chanel clutches galore! I was in heaven! I watched as they mingled, and mom greeted each new guest. I’ll be honest, I couldn’t take my eyes off her but not for the reasons you might think. I couldn’t help but notice how stiff she was. How completely she was focused on her appearance at every single turn. As she stood talking to people, she was constantly readjusting her hair and trying to find a more attractive resting pose. It wasn’t obvious she wasn’t engaged in any of the interaction. It was like she was hyper-conscious that a photo could be snapped at any time from any angle and she needed to be ready for it. By all outward appearances, this woman appeared to be living the life and having a great time. To me, she looked kind of miserable. She looked beautiful but also stiff and anxious. I secretly wondered how many hair, nail, and lash girls felt the pressure for her to be on point tonight.

The womenfolk decided picture time would commence. Just as the young girls had done, they went to the mirrors. They constructed pose after pose. They would take the photo, assess, redesign, and go again. Their poses were somewhat seductive, but they didn’t look happy, either. No shots of silly candid grins caught in the middle of a giggle. Just girls perfectly posed, some not even smiling. They knew their angles and everything. Just, perfect. Painstakingly perfect.

The daughter watched her mother take the perfect photos she had taken with her friends a moment ago. I watched the little girl admiring her mother as she worked the room and posed for photographs. Mom didn’t notice the little girl at all. Dad and mom never interacted. Mom was ON. I got the impression mom would only decide if she enjoyed the night if the photos turned out okay. Once upon a time, I would’ve thought this woman was living the dream; maybe even been jealous. Today, I’m glad I’m not her. The price is too high.  I sure hope the pictures turned out ok, as there didn’t seem to be much else on the agenda. I’m sure the function looked fabulous on camera. I think that’s all that matters anyway.