“A lady is one who never shows her underwear unintentionally.” Lillian Day

Attending various functions and events is a full time preening and primping job. Here on Planet Gorgeous I like to plan ahead as soon as I accept an invitation. The first thing I do is look at the Dress Code.

Formal: I love this little bit of information at the bottom of the invitation. I can dress up in full costume and make-up. I can bring out the Bling, the stilettos, the false eyelashes and the hair extensions…

Semi-Formal: This confuses me sometimes. How much Bling am I supposed to wear? One ring? Two? One false eyelash? One sequin? No glitter body lotion? Someone please help me! I usually arrive completely overdressed and gorgeous and then have to pretend that the other hundred people at the function did not get the memo.

Casual: No! This will never do! Who goes out looking casual? No-one I know. I usually do not attend these functions, but when I do it becomes a very intricate production. Designer jeans, silk shirt, Jimmy Choo sandals…do you know how expensive it is to look cheap? Do you realise how much make-up it takes to look natural?

Black Tie: What? If it’s a men’s only function, why invite ME? And what am I supposed to wear? Ties are disturbing little things. All these men standing around with modified nooses around their necks. Are they trying to tell us something?

Please, people-who-write-invitations, I beg of you! Make all events ‘formal’ and everybody will look gorgeous.

Last week I attended three functions. The art exhibition on Wednesday evening provided a bit of a problem. It was held on a wine farm out of town. Far out of town. So I had to leave fairly early from Planet Gorgeous in order to be fashionably late, but I was teaching a dance class at a university and got stuck in the five-o-clock traffic on the way home. The weather was not playing along either: Heatwave!

I still had to do the ‘extreme make-over Planet Gorgeous edition’ and was running out of time. When I eventually got home and finished my titivations, everything I tried on was either too hot or just did not look right. You know what I’m talking about, Ladies. There can be no margin for error. The fit has to be perfect. If you contemplate the question “Does my butt look big in this”, it usually does. Underwear is supposed to provide the illusion of perfection, so use double sided tape to secure you bra to your low cleavage top. If your bra-strap is visible, I have one word for you: slut. Never wear white pants where red wine might be served – oh – let me rephrase that: NEVER WEAR WHITE PANTS! Never wear a short skirt if you have to sit down. And if you must wear pantyhose: never ever touch your legs if you are wearing rings and stay away from furniture.

So I eventually grabbed a little black satin number. It was thin and flimsy, but it had a petticoat. It was much too hot to wear a petticoat - and I resorted to discard it, slipped the dress on and finished it off with a pair of twelve-inch black stilettos with silver heels. Gorgeous.

Belg Droller came to pick me up, and as I was scrambling into his car I noticed a strange look coming from his direction. I did not dwell on his reaction. We were late and, knowing me very well, he did not make any comments regarding my couture.

We eventually arrived at the function, but had to park kilometres away from the venue. Why do these wine-farms always have parking areas in another area code? With gravel!

I leaned over to get my handbag and then I noticed it! The reason why my dress came with a petticoat. The one I decided NOT to wear. My pretty little satin number had two inch see-though chiffon strips along the seams…and I could see my underwear through the fabric…and if I could see my underwear, then EVERYONE will be able to see my Victoria’s Secret secret.

I looked at Belg. He looked at me. “Don’t worry, the lighting will be subtle, no-one will notice.” I was not so sure about that…

I teetered behind Belg over the gravel in my mile high stilettos to the venue, trying to hide my ‘problem with indecent exposure’ with my tiny handbag. Once inside, I decided to decline the drinks on offer. I needed my arms for camouflage. After about fifteen minutes of nodding and smiling self-consciously, I figured out that if I stand with my hands on my hips I could hide my unashamedly displayed underwear though the chiffon.

So there I was, standing in the shadows, with my hands on my hips, not drinking, not eating, my bra un-fashionably Madonna-in-the-80s-like exposed though a mist of satin and chiffon for the whole world to see, but my panty force majeure-ly covered by my Bling-adorned fingers.

Ladies, there is a lesson to be learnt here.
1. Always, always check yourself before leaving your planet.
2. Never rush your titivations.
3. Never allow the weather to dictate possible wardrobe malfunction.
4. Rather be late than dead…on time.

But on the up-side: I did meet a lot of men…

Boefie-isms 13

Old dance injuries: (adjectives + plural noun) Pretty accurate weather predictors.

Plastic Surgeon: (noun) A deity among man.

Stilettos: (plural noun) An extension of the foot.

Tasteful: (adjective) A descriptor in reference to young men and more mature and sophisticated women in a relationship.

Treadmill: (noun) A machine that helps one go nowhere slowly.

Wonderbra: (proper noun) A device that facilitates the illusion of surgically enhanced breasts.