On Saturday, I went to a bridal shower at Newcastle golf course’s fancy-schmancy restaurant. It’s on the East Side and a little south and up on a ridge overlooking Bellevue and Mercer Island and Seattle. The views were absolutely stunning, and of course I didn’t take any pictures.
I feel like getting my camera out at a place like that would be solidifying the obvious in other patrons’ minds that I’m an Outsider and have never been there/will never be there again. Like I’m a tourist on a day trip and obviously Don’t Belong. If I don’t have a glass of wine, or if I stuff my face with the mediocre snack buffet, they’ll know. I have this list of anxious little dos and don’ts in my head.
Don’t put on the doe eyes. They’ll know somehow if I have anything but an insouciant expression that I’m the one that parked that beat-up little two-door Honda in the lot next to the 2000 sport model Porche and the Lexus SUV with (I kid you not) the bright orange Lamborghini on the other side.
I had Lucy with me, and of course dressed her in the fancy outfit my French friends sent complete with a beaded top and tiny pleated pants. I had meticulously planned my own outfit from the jacket to the boots, and even thought the day before about washing my hair and whether I would curl it or flat iron it.
It’s all good, and I’m the picture of belonging, right up until my perfectly dressed and coiffed little princess needs a new diaper. Then, evidently, rich people are on their own. The bathrooms didn’t even have enough counter space to snort a line on. There was no way I was going to change her on the floor. I thought briefly of going back into the restaurant and changing her on a table in there. Or maybe handing the stinky little cherub to someone on the wait/support staff and waiving my hand for them to take care her.
But I didn’t. I put on my Middle Class Pants, put my little changing pad in the sink and laid Lucy in there. And then wrestled with her to get the dirty diaper off, the new one on, and all the while to keep the faucets turned off. I left the bathroom with my hair a little mussed, my makeup a little less than perfect and a renewed sense of why fancy-pants occasions are not for babies, and not for me.
As soon as I got home, I was completely relieved to put on my lounge pants and one of my dad’s old running t-shirts. I contentedly sat on the floor with my kid and then made dinner with my husband. I happily thought about doing laundry and what groceries I needed for the week.
But you know I left a little souvenir behind in that fancy-schmancy bathroom garbage.