As Disney princesses go, I’ve found myself relating to Ariel. Not because I come from privilege, have a beautiful singing voice, or have a ridiculous predisposition to enter into Faustian deals, but because I have unrealistic standards and am kind of spacey and naive sometimes. Now, however, I find myself becoming more of a Cinderella boy.
You see, I wanted to go to this festival. The festival? The festival! OK, it was a ball, but I saw both Into the Woods and [title of show] in the last two weeks and have been dying for someone to say “festival”. The Big Hair Ball is a bi-annual event at the Des Moines Art Center. I had planned to go, but then foolishly volunteered to take someone’s shift the coffee shop from 2:00 to 10:00 (much like Ariel, I sometimes over-commit myself). The morning of the Ball, my roommate/dear friend reminded me of the glittery and greasy event, and immediately I pictured myself sweeping the floor, looking off into the distance and singing about how I wished I was at the Ball. I would also be dirty because of all of my manual labor. I don’t really know if this is what Disney Cinderella did, as I haven’t seen that movie since I was a wee chap, but it seemed sensible.
My Fairy Godmother didn’t come in the form of a middle-aged overweight woman as one might think, but in the form of a slender young woman named Mandie who offered to cover the evening portion of my shift. In only two hours, I snapped into action and (with a little help from my friends) was able to put together a snappy outfit, INCLUDING A BOW TIE.
The bow tie could be an entire post on itself, but the short version is that I found my first bow tie and learned to tie it all the day of the Ball. Giddy I was. Bare with me: I am telling you about my outfit because it is significant to the story, not just because of vanity. My brown jacket is probably my favorite piece of clothing. It was only $3 at Goodwill and fits like it was tailored for me. It has beautiful gold fleur-de-lis buttons and crazy cool stitching. It’s grand.
The Jacket and Bow Tie
The Ball itself was swell, as was the afterparty. We enjoyed ourselves and danced the night away, taking my roomie’s little brother on a mini-tour of the downtown Des Moines bars (it was his 21st birthday). At 1:50ish, just as bartenders across the city are getting extra pushy to get everyone out the door, I looked down any my midriff which, while still covered by my shirt, was draftier than normal. I had lost a button.
I MAY have overreacted. A little. Balls lead to heightened emotions. This is why I can’t have nice things.
In case you aren’t connecting this back to Cinderella, let me connect some dots for you. If Cinderella had accidentally looked down and realized she had lost her shoe, but had no idea when, our stories would be more similar. Actually, I could see this being more realistic. Cindy was probably a little tipsy, as she had never really been to a ball before and didn’t now how to handle her mead, and took off her glass slippers because they were glamorous, but not practical, and then lost track of one of them.
I re-entered the Des Moines Social Club, rudely ignoring eye contact with everyone in my path and scouring the floor. And I found the button! I found a button! It was a brown button that was clearly not mine. For a minute it crossed my mind that once an article was removed from my coat, it lost it’s magic and turned back into something more common (carriage to pumpkin), but then I realized it was 1:53 and I had precious little time to re-enter every establishment we visited to find my button. I only made it back into two places, and sweeping had already commenced at each.
Sunday morning I rose bright and early (ish) and wandered back up and down 4th Street in the sunlight in search of the button. Zero joy. It is amazing how much crap you find when you are just looking at the sidewalk, though. This is also dangerous, especially pre-coffee.
My story does deviate a little from Cinderella’s experience. I doubt that someone is out there with my button running around to each household looking for the lad who has the coat that fits the button. Also, I didn’t dance with Prince Charming. Not every story has to end with someone in a relationship- what is this, 1990? Cliché much? All I really want is my button.
If you are at the Social Club, out on 4th Street or the Art Center, can you please keep an eye out for my button?
