This is the story of how I ended up a state dinner-like affair, woefully under dressed and under prepared.
Last Wednesday, I (and the rest of my work colleagues) received the following email from my boss's assistant:
"Please confirm you presence for the dinner party at the residence of Mr. Bigwig and Ms. Bigwig at Bigwig place, New Delhi on 9th May 2014 at 8 PM. "
(slightly edited, but I have kept the font size, coloring, and injunctive tone consistent with original).
Anyway, as requested, I confirmed my attendance for what I assumed would be an office dinner party--you know, the sort of casual occasion that allows coworkers to relax, unwind, and get to know each other a bit better. On Friday morning I choose my outfit with particular care, pulling on my best khakis (the pair with only one, hardly noticeable, stain in the knee area and an upscale elastic waist) and a matching beige shirt. To jazz things up a little--after all, it was a party--I finished the ensemble with a neon blue beaded necklace and my blue and gold sequined slippers, recently purchased from the dollar market.
It was a long hot day at work and by the time 7:30pm rolled around my mascara (the only makeup I wear here) had slid off of my lashes, my khakis were somewhat crumpled behind the knees and the back of my shirt was damp with perspiration. I walked to the bathroom to freshen myself up bit before heading out to the party and noticed that most of my coworkers (who usually work longer hours than I do) had left. That was a bit strange and a bit alarming as it meant I was perilously close to being the last person left in the office, i.e., the person required to close up shop, i.e., the person required to figure out how to turn off the myriad of lights and ceiling fans. Faced with the danger of the moment I grabbed my laptop and bolted out the door, heading towards the party.
Here's something you should know about my boss: he's a big cheese. A really big cheese. And here's something else to know about him: his wife is an even bigger cheese. She is, in fact, the Secretary of Something Important here in India. And, apparently all Secretaries of Something Important in India are granted government mansions to live in, which is where the little office dinner party was being held.
Except, it wasn't a little office dinner party. The valets were perhaps my first sign that I hadn't fully grasped the enormity of the dinner in store, the jazzy-notes of the live band were the second. By the time I had made it onto the front lawn of the property (lugging my laptop in an enormous tote bag, I should mention) it was had become crystal clear that I needed to reassess my expectations here.
The lawn in front of the house had been completely decorated with fairy lights and large round tables with white tablecloths, floral centerpieces and gold chairs. One full side of the lawn was taken up by a buffet with perhaps 25 separate offerings, staffed by as many servers. Still other servers in white uniforms walked from group to group offering gourmet versions of Delhi street foods and cocktails. (A bar was also set up in another corner of the lawn). A six-person band had taken the stage set up at the far end of the lawn. And of the guests themselves (a couple hundred I reckon), the men were wearing slacks and button-downs and the women were wearing beautiful saris and diamonds, diamonds, diamonds. (Also, I might note that my coworkers showed up a bit late--they'd all popped home to put on dresses and other such appropriate attire. Why didn't anyone tell me that this party was a formal affair???? The only other people similarly dressed down were my American and Australian coworkers--apparently no one had bothered to tell them that this wasn't a come-straight-from-work affair either. Humph.)
As I mingled about I realized that the guests were other luminaries of Delhi high society--and reporters who I guess were sent to cover the event.
(Me, with one of my coworkers who forgot to tell me to dress up!)
Oh well. Never one to let bad clothing stand in my way I dropped my tote bag into a chair, grabbed the nearest server bearing cocktails, befriended a fancy-looking middle aged woman (we bonded over the fact her daughters are leaning Spanish in school), and chowed down with gusto.
I balked at opening the dance floor though. I mean, c'mon, I was wearing khakis with an elastic waist!
Last Wednesday, I (and the rest of my work colleagues) received the following email from my boss's assistant:
"Please confirm you presence for the dinner party at the residence of Mr. Bigwig and Ms. Bigwig at Bigwig place, New Delhi on 9th May 2014 at 8 PM. "
(slightly edited, but I have kept the font size, coloring, and injunctive tone consistent with original).
Anyway, as requested, I confirmed my attendance for what I assumed would be an office dinner party--you know, the sort of casual occasion that allows coworkers to relax, unwind, and get to know each other a bit better. On Friday morning I choose my outfit with particular care, pulling on my best khakis (the pair with only one, hardly noticeable, stain in the knee area and an upscale elastic waist) and a matching beige shirt. To jazz things up a little--after all, it was a party--I finished the ensemble with a neon blue beaded necklace and my blue and gold sequined slippers, recently purchased from the dollar market.
It was a long hot day at work and by the time 7:30pm rolled around my mascara (the only makeup I wear here) had slid off of my lashes, my khakis were somewhat crumpled behind the knees and the back of my shirt was damp with perspiration. I walked to the bathroom to freshen myself up bit before heading out to the party and noticed that most of my coworkers (who usually work longer hours than I do) had left. That was a bit strange and a bit alarming as it meant I was perilously close to being the last person left in the office, i.e., the person required to close up shop, i.e., the person required to figure out how to turn off the myriad of lights and ceiling fans. Faced with the danger of the moment I grabbed my laptop and bolted out the door, heading towards the party.
Here's something you should know about my boss: he's a big cheese. A really big cheese. And here's something else to know about him: his wife is an even bigger cheese. She is, in fact, the Secretary of Something Important here in India. And, apparently all Secretaries of Something Important in India are granted government mansions to live in, which is where the little office dinner party was being held.
Except, it wasn't a little office dinner party. The valets were perhaps my first sign that I hadn't fully grasped the enormity of the dinner in store, the jazzy-notes of the live band were the second. By the time I had made it onto the front lawn of the property (lugging my laptop in an enormous tote bag, I should mention) it was had become crystal clear that I needed to reassess my expectations here.
The lawn in front of the house had been completely decorated with fairy lights and large round tables with white tablecloths, floral centerpieces and gold chairs. One full side of the lawn was taken up by a buffet with perhaps 25 separate offerings, staffed by as many servers. Still other servers in white uniforms walked from group to group offering gourmet versions of Delhi street foods and cocktails. (A bar was also set up in another corner of the lawn). A six-person band had taken the stage set up at the far end of the lawn. And of the guests themselves (a couple hundred I reckon), the men were wearing slacks and button-downs and the women were wearing beautiful saris and diamonds, diamonds, diamonds. (Also, I might note that my coworkers showed up a bit late--they'd all popped home to put on dresses and other such appropriate attire. Why didn't anyone tell me that this party was a formal affair???? The only other people similarly dressed down were my American and Australian coworkers--apparently no one had bothered to tell them that this wasn't a come-straight-from-work affair either. Humph.)
As I mingled about I realized that the guests were other luminaries of Delhi high society--and reporters who I guess were sent to cover the event.
Oh well. Never one to let bad clothing stand in my way I dropped my tote bag into a chair, grabbed the nearest server bearing cocktails, befriended a fancy-looking middle aged woman (we bonded over the fact her daughters are leaning Spanish in school), and chowed down with gusto.
I balked at opening the dance floor though. I mean, c'mon, I was wearing khakis with an elastic waist!
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