The back-up dress dilemma

We snapped a selfie, gushed with pride about our “all grown-up” kids and exchanged compliments about each other’s dresses.

A funny conversation followed.

You know, I said, I brought a back-up dress in case, it’s in the car.

Then, without being asked to explain, I was compelled to anyway, as a million reasons for my decision rushed through my mind as I started justifying to myself why I felt the need to do that.

For starters, the dress I chose to wear was so far beyond the reach of my comfort zone it almost breached the ozone layer.

Can’t go wrong with an LBD, so that’s what I usually revert to (incidentally, that’s what my back-up dress was).

So, what if, after choosing such an obvious dress to wear, I arrived at the ball and someone else was wearing the same dress?

If it were plain black, it wouldn’t matter so much.

Would it matter anyway? I don’t know, but ‘preparedness’ is perhaps what I should request deed poll to make my middle name from this moment forth.

The day was windy and unseasonably cold.

My lairy dress had puff sleeves, which didn’t lend themselves particularly well to being stuffed inside a jacket.

What if I got so cold I needed to put one on?

Another scenario in which my back-up dress would come in. Its shoulder tailoring could easily be sheathed under a shawl.

What if a zipper busted and, again, I couldn’t put a jacket on to hide the wardrobe malfunction?

I wasn’t really concerned about that possibility, but the feed was pretty delicious and had potential to be button-popping.

Despite there being no passouts, I’d hope security would show me mercy — even if it meant escorting me to my car to make sure I didn’t down a couple of shots there before I made my way back into the venue — and let me retrieve my back-up dress.

My friend and I laughed at how responsible we had become in our ‘old age’.

I had a tiny handbag to match my dress, but it didn’t fit all the things I thought I needed inside, such as a sheet of Zyrtec in case the earlier wind we’d posed for photos in had given anyone a night-ruining dose of hayfever.

Yes, that’s the level of my preparedness.

When I was a teenager myself, I would head out on an icy July night with exposed toes, wearing strappy heels and a crop top without a jacket.

Who wants to carry that cumbersome thing around?

We would wait for an hour at a taxi rank as frost formed on the park benches we sat upon.

The cold never bothered me (back then) anyway.

Our phone batteries had long died. We didn’t carry portable chargers.

We just worked it out.

When do you go from being carefree to control freak?

Is it when you have kids?

Watching my boy all suited up, dancing regally and being presented on parade with his partner is one of those moments where you just sit back and think, ‘wow, they’re not little kids anymore’.

Soon, he’ll be an adult like me, weighed down with mundane mind-filling thoughts about whether he should pack a hanky and a change of jocks or not.

I mean, it’s probably unlikely, but he is my son, so there’s always potential for it.

We danced together during the special person’s dance and I wondered if I should be sad that this could been the last time I’d be the ‘special person’ at a deb.

I danced with my eldest at his deb last year, but I know that my youngest would feel more comfortable on Mars surrounded by aliens than doing such a thing.

But because my hands shook and my mouth dried with nerves and I urged my overthinking brain to just focus on the damn dance, I just felt off the hook.

I’m at my limit remembering the 63 steps of packing a handbag without having to remember dance steps, too.

So, it was definitely relief, not lament.

Until ...

Number two son told me he’d been asked to partner another of his friends for her deb later in the year.

He’s considering it.

I guess if he accepts, I’ve got a back-up dress ready to go.