Looking good has never been this hard

This was a weekend of fashion disasters. The weather is weird. It's January, I have great, big stylish winter boots good for twenty-five degrees BELOW zero, but it's fifty degrees. I wear them anyway. I put on a little red cocktail dress. Maybe that'll make up for how hot and sweaty my feet are.

I feel silly. I love my boots but I shouldn't have worn them. This is the only outfit I have for the next day. Tiger edited a book and now there's a launch party. Unless there's a blizzard overnight, these boots are not good for the party. I whine that I couldn't fit another outfit in my overnight bag. Tiger takes my bag and carries it for me. I feel better already. I pester Tiger with,

"How do I look?"... "No really, how do you think I look?"... "I feel silly."... "You're just saying that."

I'm testing Tiger's last nerve. I promise to cease and desist. For a little while. 

We get to the spa for a hot-tub soak. There are two girls and their moms in the waiting room. The girls appear to have autism. One sees me in my red dress/winter boots and shouts across the room to her mom,

"Mom, do you look good in red?"

No answer. Then she turns to her friend,

"Can you wear red?"

The next day I get up, it's forty degrees and sunny. I run home and change into shoes a tenth of the size of my boots. I model my new outfit for Tiger,

"Perfect."

We head to the party at a renovated theater. We're feet away from the entrance and Tiger catches his pants on a fire hydrant. RRRIP. There's a twelve inch flap of corduroy hanging down and I see a hairy leg. This is BAD. I examine the tear site,

"You're not bleeding!"

The other saving grace is that we're across the street from an Eddie Bauer outlet, the only place Tiger buys his clothes. New pants and no winter boots, we slip into the party. Open bar! Lots of food! Tiger introduces me to the author. He tells us to get comfortable, he's going to give a talk. I stake out a great place next to the turkey wraps. Tiger whispers to me,

"You're the prettiest one here."

I melt a little and then realize there's only one other woman here my age. The author begins,

"I was born on the night of the hurricane of '38."

The crowd murmurs in awe and appreciation. 

My MOM doesn't even know about the hurricane of '38.

Tiger tells me,

"You should feel at home here."

With the senior citizens?

"Most of these people are Jews."

After the talk, We go upstairs to see a Vaudeville exhibit. The oppression of being in a museum-like setting hits me. I turn to Tiger,

"This was very tricky. Tempt me with food and alcohol and then throw in a museum." 

"We've been up here for five minutes."

We head downstairs for more food and alcohol. Tiger introduces me to the author's wife. She says to Tiger in reference to me,

"It's nice you have such a good friend."

Tiger tells her,

"This is my girlfriend."

"OH. I didn't know you had a girlfriend."

Afterwards I read the acknowledgments page of the book. I exclaim,

"Tiger! It says such nice things about you!"

"I know. I wrote it."

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