Yesterday, I primped and polished and buffed and glossed until I shone. Then, I carefully slipped into my new dress, the dress that I spent weeks searching for, only to have the zipper break as Hugh attempted to zip me in.
To say I was disappointed would be a vast understatement.
Hugh braced himself for a blow-up, but, if I have learned anything in the time that I have been employed at Day Job, it is that a minor crisis does not a ruined day make. So, I grabbed a suitable-if not stunning-dress from my closet and slipped into it, instead.
Then, The Teenager and I headed to the event center to make sure that my flowers had been delivered to my table (they had, and they were gorgeous! Pictures and a full luncheon report to come, tomorrow). Then, I did my photography duties, snapping shots of all of the tables, until 10:00, when the store at which I had purchased the Dream Dress opened.
I then grabbed The Teenager and we went to return the dress. Once we got to the store, it occurred to me that the same dress, in one size smaller, might fit, so; I tried it on, and, lord of all lords, it fit. So, instead of a refund, I exchanged the busted dress and walked out of the store in the Dream Dress in an even dreamier size.
On the way back to the event center, The Teenager commented on how well I had handled the whole ordeal and we had a great talk about the things in life that are worth stressing over and the things that just...aren't.
I shared with her the motto that I recently wrote on my white board at work, the saying that I repeat to myself every day as I leave work, in an effort not to take the problems of other people home with me: Not my circus, not my monkeys.
The teenager is planning to use that quote as her motto when she is stressing over college stuff, high school stuff, etc., and; I can't help but think that it might be one of the most important things that I have ever taught her.
I hope so, anyway.