If you’d like to know how the night ended, it was with my mother laughing and saying that I “can’t even pull off a skirt right”. (I won’t argue. It’s only my third time wearing one.)
My tux plans went for a toss when, after having gotten my pants ready, mum and I realised that we don’t have the shirt and coat to go above it.
Yep, it took us a week to discover that loophole.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cringe.
So I ended up trudging along in a skirt. Figures.
Apart from that, it was as every Farewell should be—where you rediscover that you absolutely can’t dance, and that there are only a few varieties in this department: those who are bad at dancing, those who are exceptional at dancing bad, and those who can give you an illusion of a good dance. And you realise no one cares. And you realise why the stationery industry isn’t dead, when ink and thoughts flow freer than non-existent wine—yearbook signing!
Basically, awesome stuff.
(I hear laughter in the background. Is that a high-pitched Chemistry high on helium? Come on, it’s 1:30 AM!)