My boyfriend called me one morning so excitedly, “Love, dress up and be here at the hotel (where he works) in two hours. We’re going to Ascot! Have you heard of the Royal Ascot races? But before we go there, I need you to shop for a fascinator.”
“A what?” I said.
“A fascinator. A hat for the races.”
I dragged myself to the shower. I hate surprises. I’ve seen the Royal Ascot in the news sometimes. And I don’t know what a fascinator is. In the Philippines and in San Francisco, we didn’t concern ourselves with this frufru. But after all my drama, I got there, all dolled up, with a black fascinator in tow. A smile on my face.
I loved how I looked with my black dress with matching black fascinator; with the deep-sea pearls he gave me a few weeks ago. I felt so regal. I never looked like this before. It was a far cry from my dirty, sandy jeans and shirt get up I frequently wore as a teacher. I was about to go to the ball. I apologized for my drama. I loved this surprise.
Ok, I’ll cut the drama when it comes to surprises. It’s most likely something wonderful. And I don’t want to have to apologize afterwards.