Class-less

Formal situations make me twitchy and nervous.  It's not that I wasn't raised right.  I was (Hi, Mom!).  I just lack experience in knowing exactly what to do in these settings.  Growing up with four siblings, dinner time was more of a "come and get it" sorta gig.  Not napkins-in-your-lap-make-sure-you-use-the-proper-fork kinda deal.  Half the time Mom ate her meals standing up, if at all.  I remember my father leaning over to me during our rehearsal dinner to ask which fork to use for his salad.  He was askin' me.  Ha!  Blind leadin' the blind. 

I never fully appreciated formal dining until our honeymoon.  We had three formal nights that I was dreading.  "What's the point?", I complained, "It's just dinner".  The real deal was, I would be uncomfortable.  My husband and I differ in this area.  He knows of prim and proper etiquette and how to conduct himself in these situations.  I do not.

Much to my surprise, I enjoyed myself.  I don't think I did anything to embarrass myself.  "This is something I could get used to!". 

Today is our anniversary, and my husband being who he is, made us reservations at a very nice restaurant.  I wasn't feeling it at first.  With all the trouble of getting a sitter, preparing for being gone for a while, and all the logistic complications that come with both, my vote was to order a pizza and call it a night.   I relented and actually got excited about the prospect of getting all dressed up and dining out.  (I will get to sit at a table and eat an entire meal!  Woo-hoo!).  I was looking forward to it.

Beba was watching Riley.  We both showered and were able to get all spiffed up.  We made our escape after feeding the baby his dinner.  On time.  I was patting myself on the back for all of this, until we actually got there.

Yes, I actually wore make-up, lipstick and all.

I started getting nervous and fumbl-y.  It's been a while since I have been in this setting.  Most days, I don't do my hair, I don't put on make-up, some days I don't even get dressed.  I take care of a six-month-old (he doesn't care if my hair is a mess) and rarely leave the house.  Sad but true. 

After attempting to carefully place my menu out of the way (so I could dig in to the bread, of course!) I spilled John's glass of tea all over the chair and the floor.  Oops.  I ordered a salad.  I knew better.  For anyone else, this wouldn't be a problem.  I had oral surgery a couple of years ago and  have no sensation on the left lower side of my mouth.  Picture a cow chewing hay, and you'll get some idea of the gross spectacle this is.  My husband was tolerant but I could tell he was ready to crawl under the table.  Bless his heart, he loves me anyway.  Unconditionally.  At some point he'll learn.  You can take the girl out of Edgecombe county . . . . . notsomuch the other way around.

We are at home and I am comfortable.  Make-up gone, jammies on, contacts out, getting ready to tear in to our dessert.  With the wrong effin' fork, I'm sure.