Fat Tuesday

I attended a super swanky event on Monday night. Invited by the tallest, smartest, still-so-in-loviest couple I know, they paired me up with a cologne-ad handsome “date” who was all sorts of charming. I sat three feet away from a star, and our waiter appropriately gauged my enthusiasm for refills. All snowy school weeks should be ushered in with a boozy evening in formalwear.

A particular highlight for me was gaining outfit approval from a drag queen. An Amazonian with astonished eyebrows, a headdress, and much larger falsies than my own gave me the once over and announced, “I love your outfit. I would totally wear that.” I’ve arrived. Mid-twenties Britt with a closet full of Ann Taylor matchables never expected to own anything that would be coveted by a man named Destiny. Of course, mid-twenties Britt would also never have guessed she’d be growing out a head of hair from scratch. But for the first time (in a long, long time) there were no questions about the etiology of my closely cropped cut.

I’m still practicing funnier, deflecting answers to hairdo inquiries. My almost-Diana ‘do is less and less a dead give-away, but still provides the possibility of sneaking the dreaded disease into an otherwise lovely night of fundraising. I never shy from sharing a breezy spiel that ties up a terrifying year with a pretty bow, and deters any utterances of prognosis (blah, never say this word near wig-owning women). Certainly, An Evening Without Cancer is an added bonus to An Evening Without Children. And on Monday night, because no one asked, I was just another shorthaired girl in sequins. Gala Monday was my Fat Tuesday:  bubbly indulgences, Art, movie stars, drag queens, witty whispers, scrumptious little cookies, and truly lovely friends who might not realize how great the gift of glittery gluttony would be for this gal.

Later I plan to get all ashy and serious. Lent has begun and the following forty days will be dry. Britt Without Bubbles. Because a season of sobriety may dampen my usual jokiness, Steve Safran promises to keep drinking in my stead. I am so frequently asked about my grumpy guest blogger, that I commissioned an About Steve page from my funny friend. Much like me alongside any man in size 14 stilettoes, Britt and Stevie make an unexpected pair: Churchy Jesus Cancer Girl and her Snarky Jewish sidekick chiming in as Heeb Meets Breast. I warned the writing might suffer (like Jesus). Lent: forty days of horrible jokes. Apologies in advance.

No higher compliment than outfit accolades from the likes of these ladies.

No higher compliment than outfit accolades from the likes of these ladies.