You know when you hear a bit of a song and you know that you know it but can't quite come up with what it is? I had that happen at symphony. Except instead of "Name that Tune" (which would have been easy, seeing as it was symphony and I had a program in my lap), it was "Name that Perfume."
The woman next to me was wearing something I wore and discarded many years ago. I sat there and rifled through familiar scents, trying to narrow it down. And then I started to recall where I was and how I was feeling, and yes, even what I was wearing when I wore it. It was so vivid, I nearly hit the invisible buzzer, jumped up in the middle of Beethoven's Piano Concerto and shouted "Paloma Picasso!" Do they still make Paloma Picasso?
I bought a bottle of Paloma Picasso at Saks Fifth Avenue many moons ago. It did not come to be mine completely legitimately.
That was the summer when Mr. Millionaire was trying to buy my affections (if not actually trying to buy ME). I was in his city on a work related trip and he had offered to take me to dinner. He did not especially like the linen suit I was wearing and so we went to dinner by way of Saks, where he picked up a very tasteful dress, purse and shoes for me. I am not sure how this was okay, but I hadn't taken up kickboxing yet so I went with it.
We went to dinner and as I oggled the delicious, delicious, delicious things on the menu I heard him say "and the lady will have..." I nearly dropped my fois gras. I don't know about everyone else out there, but I've been dressing myself and feeding myself for a really long time and seriously, what's up with that?
Anyway, we had dinner. And then over dessert, when I had pretty much stopped listening, he said "your parents would love me as a son-in-law." I did not drop my dessert fork because I never, ever drop my dessert fork. But I was very confused. After all, we had spent a total of maybe ten days together, spread out over several months. And because it was late and I was tired and confused I started to think about what it would be like to marry Mr. Millionaire. I could go to ballet classes all week. I could join the Symphony Guild. I could meet other women who were in similar positions and I might like some of them. We could have lunch. And oh by the way I'd have to acquire a bit of a drinking problem so I could deal with being married to Mr. Millionaire. After all, shaken or stirred might be the only decision I was able to make for myself.
I flew home and went straight to Saks, where I returned the purse and exchanged it for the perfume and a pair of Betsey Johnson pants. I loved those pants.
The funny thing is, I remembered all this while I was at symphony, feeling a little sore from my dance class. I have met women who are in similar situations to mine - many of whom I like. We have lunch. I also have 40 tomato plants in my livingroom, chickens in the yard and a band in the basement. Most importantly, I have a husband who has not yet driven me to drink.
And that, my friends, is my review of today's performance.