The ball was nearly a month ago, and I’m still humming “I Could Have Danced All Night.” Often. And with a smile on my face. With a strapless chiffon gown, opera length gloves, crystal chandelier earrings and a dashing man in a cutaway tuxedo on my arm, Audrey Hepburn as Eliza Doolittle had nothing on me.

Of course, if we’re talking size, I’ve got plenty on Audrey Hepburn on her very worst days. But who among us couldn’t say that?

The fact of the matter is that three decades after I wore my first long dress (my wedding dress, and let’s face it, you wear it once and then get it heirloomed in a box wrapped in plastic), I was decked out in my second, and having a perfectly wonderful time. 

I never went to a prom, I wore short dresses to high school homecoming dances, borrowed a long dress from a friend to wear to a formal event at college, and never stood up in a wedding. Until the Viennese Ball came up, the longest thing in my closet was a wool cape I bought in Ireland when I was twenty-two. I remember another reporter in the newsroom where I was I working at the time told me the flecked grey tweed reminded him of a sheet of particle board. I nursed a grudge for years.

Imagine the conflicting set of emotions that came with the discovery that friends had bought me a ticket to the “Viennese Ball” held annually at the University of Wisconsin—Eau Claire campus in spring. The dress code was tuxes and dress suits for the men, long dresses for the ladies. Woo hoo! A reason to shop for frivolity’s sake, though setting out to purchase a ball gown in a size I had hoped to have exercised my way out of months ago posed significant challenges. As did the fact that I was still balancing out of town trips for family matters and digging my way out of a pile of paperwork related to my godmother’s passing.

With no real time to spend a day or two at a shopping mall, I ended up letting my fingers do the walking right across the keyboard and into cyberspace, and ran through many collections of lovely long dresses…which were sold out in my size. The world of fashion selection is your oyster when you’re a size four. I’m not, and my dismay grew and grew as I chose dress after lovely and suitable dress in sapphire, navy, royal blue, jade green…and found they were only available for me in ridiculous pastels. I’m sorry, at this age seafoam green and pale lavender should not be on the menu. Give me something bold, and rich, and…slimming.

With time running out, I finally sighed with resignation and picked what looked on my computer screen to be a dress in relatively muted, dusty pink. Empire waist, chiffon, with a draped and gathered bodice, it looked dignified but still sexy.   What did I really care if I had to wear my lipstick a shade darker so I wouldn’t disappear in the dress? I went in search of double-sided tape to guard against any “wardrobe malfunctions” if we did some swing dancing, and bought a stick-on bra. Picked up a pair of opera length white satin gloves to finish off the outfit only two days before the dance. 

When the dress arrived, I discovered that there was nothing muted about this pink. Fluorescent was a better description. But…there was no time for changing things. Guess that lipstick would have to get even darker.  

We loaded up the Chevy and gamely drove the four hours to Eau Claire, where we checked into our hotel room. Somewhere during the drive I realized I’d left the double-sided dress tape back on my kitchen counter. After I washed my face to put on a fresh coat of makeup, I discovered I’d left my foundation at home as well. I was confident that I could get through the evening, discretely tugging the bodice of my dress up every once in a while, but the foundation was a different story. 

Think of it as a painting project, I told the man in my life who is incredibly adept at household repairs. You wouldn’t dream of painting the wall without a coat of primer, would you? We found the nearest department store and I dashed in, finding rescue and guidance in the form of a clerk who looked about eighteen.