I’m stitching the facing to the backside of bound buttonholes on Nels’ newest coat and I’m tired, tired, tired.
“You could wear a dress,” I tell my daughter.
“Which one?” she asks, politely.
“The green one.” I mutter, stabbing through the thick layers of fabric. The jacket didn’t quite go As Planned and I want it done!
“The peacock one? This isn’t a formal event. There are donkeys involved,” she says, judiciously.
I’m like, “Well -”
She muses, “You know – unless it’s show business, if there are donkeys involved, it’s probably pretty redneck-y.”
I fall silent, and she just keeps talking – in a low voice, to herself I think – and I am shaking in silent laughter at her vaguely disapproving tone. It’s like she’s slightly offended there are going to be donkeys indoors. She goes to this little rural school in the middle of nowhere but she fits in great. Anyway, I’m pretty sure the main reason she wants us all to go tonight, is so she can see her Crush.
Phoenix has the most appropriate sense of everything, in just about any social situation I’ve seen her in.
So then without my inappropriate fashion advice, she proceeds to select her own attire for the evening: grey chambray shirt, her jeans with the “legendary fit” (her words!), her father’s grey fedora, and a simple necklace. A bit of face powder, hair back in low ponytail, then: “Smooooth,” she says to herself in the mirror, nodding approvingly.
A first time for everything.
After a surprisingly-close game, we pack up and drive home through fog and chill winter roads and back home. Ralph’s baking bánh mì and I’m about to dust off my resume.
Night-time meds: a tablespoon molasses in hot milk. To get my blood iron up.