The gala gorging is over. The six-figure gowns and jewels are once again with the merchandisers, or they've been sloughed off for work-out clothes with the tip-of-the-hat to ingenuous invisibility -- the Hollywood hottie adds a casual Hermes scarf or Fendi bag, and the Hollywood hunk dons a three-day beard & worn Ferragamo loafers. (Oh, we'll never recognize them!)
The tears of joy have dried, and the lukewarm applause from the Also-Rans no longer echoes from off-stage.
I can afford to be cavalier here, having never been close to a Red Carpet. But every year, I'm just a little surprised that I wasn't mentioned.
There's a category, you see, where I expect to at least hear my name pitched. It's not quite an Oscar statue category, but has taken on a life of its own, sometimes eclipsing the ceremony itself. That would be the longer-lived Oscar-night category of Best Dressed.
That's my field.
It's not that I try to look over-dressed. I don't work at shabby chic or glam. As a matter of fact, I'm not trying to do anything but look beautiful.
I blame it on teaching school. See, they had these Spirit Days -- Dress Goofy days, I used to call them. As a kid myself, I don't believe I ever participated. But as a teacher working for enough Spirit Points to win an ice cream sundae party, or an end-of-the-year trip, who could resist? My closet and cupboards and craft feathers and beads cried out to help.
And I made a discovery.
It's this: You can start out playing Dress Goofy. But somebody, somewhere, won't see it that way, and it will change your life. That's what happened to me.
I taught school, and it was Spirit Day. I'd run into the office searching desperately for an unused computer, thrown myself into an empty chair, and was tapping away, oblivious. Then I got that feeling you get when you know somebody's watching you. I glanced around -- there were very few adults, all busy themselves, and a couple of kids hanging at the counter. I lowered my eyes to my chore, and tapped the keys best as I could with the fake plastic nails with the heart stickers on them and the heavily glittered eyelashes I was wearing.
I blew feathers out of my eyes. They were dangling from my sunhat. Aqua feathers, with rounded white and black and red beads on the cords. Blew them again, lifting my chin -- and realized it was the kids: They were now hanging over the counter, staring at me without blinking. I recognized them -- a first grader and fourth grader, sons of the custodian.
I smiled at them, then tugged at the triple-length pop-bead necklace I'd wound from my wrist to half-way up my arm, to keep it from catching on the keyboard. Typed. Blew at the feathers -- straightened the hat so the feathers fell over my ear instead of in my eye, and got feathers caught in my earring. Well, it wasn't quite an earring -- it was a Christmas ornament, one of two glittering six-inch Santas that I'd hung from earring findings. I unclasped it to untangle it from the feathers, a little miffed, looked around for a safe place to put it, realized it would probably roll off and break, and settled for fastening it to one of the necklaces I was wearing. I chose the longest and sturdiest of the gold chains.
The other long necklaces wouldn't have worked. One was simple lengths of yarn with dried hand-rolled semi-round clay balls at the ends. The yarn ends were loosely knotted over, and a clay cylinder my youngest son had scratched his initials in kind of latched it -- no place to put a Christmas ornament earring; it wouldn't match. And, the fifth necklace I had to be very careful with; I would not have tried to make that necklace carry a fist-sized Santa, lest it break off pieces of the dyed macaroni.
With all the fussing, the boa had slipped off my shoulders, so I slipped under the desk to pick it up, and smoothed the net petticoat I was wearing over my skirt. When I righted myself, I was surprised to see that the boys had skittered around or over the counter, and were hanging over the computer monitor. I nearly jumped, and covered my mouth with one hand to keep from yelping. Nearly scratched myself with the ink-pen spring I'd twisted into a pinkie ring. I said hello to the boys as I turned the spring-ring outwards, and straightened my wedding band and the Cubic Z anniversary ring, shined the mood ring on my index ringer, and touched the birthstones and five-and-dime cocktail rings on my right hand to make sure they were all still there.
As the boys stared, I became a little self-conscious. I was, after all, just a teacher, and clearly these children thought I could actually help them with something.
"I don't work in the office," I apologized.
"We know," the big one said soberly. I smiled again, and finished my typing. I hit Print.
They edged even closer.
"Gentlemen," I said, scooting my chair back, "I'm not sure you're supposed to be back here -- and I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be..." I looked about. Nobody was coming to my rescue. Parents were streaming into the office, and any minute I feared I'd be expected to do something helpful.
I tossed the end of the boa over my shoulder with an air of finality. The littlest boy slipped snugly beside me. He had my silver sequined clutch bag in his hand, and handed it to me.
"Oh! Thank you," I said. "I forgot I had that." They stood, still staring. "I, uh, have to get something from the printer... but -- Is there something you need?" The boys looked at one another. Then the littlest one spoke.
"Mrs. Bates..."
The oldest one said, "We just wanted to say --"
"We think you're beautiful," the first-grader finished.
I was so surprised, I could hardly stutter my thank-you's. As I made my way out of the office, the older boy called after me, "And we like your shoelaces." They matched the aqua feathers; I'd made sure of that.
It was that day that I adopted the beauty scale of the elementary child. It's quite simple: One necklace, you have a nice necklace. A necklace and a hat, you look nice. Five necklaces, feathers, netting over your skirt, pop-beads, a boa, sashaying Santas, rings on every finger, and turquoise shoelaces, and you are... beautiful. It was true, I figured: Beauty is ageless.
I wear everything that my grandkids give me now, from Cracker Jack rings to coloring-page brooches. And if a little one puts lipstick on me, I don't touch it up. When I have a pedicure, my Pedi-Person paints polka dots and sparkles on my toes. Sometimes grownup people look a little startled. But later that day, I'm sure to meet a toddler who'll see my grandma-toe polka dots and smile at me in vast delight.
No mystery here: She thinks I'm beautiful.
"And the Oscar goes to...!" Some day, I'm sure I'll hear my name.