Is This How the Grown-Ups Do It?
Last night a girlfriend of mine took me to a Festival of Trees.
Festival of Trees. It was an event located in the haughty-taughty area of North Carolina known as Pinehurst. If you know anything at all about golf, you might’ve heard of it. If you don’t know anything about golf, all you need to know about Pinehurst is that it’s home to several über prestigious golf clubs and even über-er prestigious-ier multi-million dollar homes.
Needless to say, I don’t find myself frequenting this part of the state very often. But Christie, my girlfriend (that is – friend-who-is-a-girl – not lesbian lover), really wanted to see the Festival of Trees at the Pinehurst Resort, an event that raises money for the Sandhills Children’s Center by displaying and auctioning a multitude of beautifully decorated Christmas trees, wreaths, and other holiday-type décor.
My social activity list hasn’t exactly been bursting as of late, and although I (needless to say) don’t feel like an “insider” in Pinehurst, I was already jumping at the chance to go out. Plus I heard there’d be wine. So I put on my bestest pair of jeans (the dark-ish ones that only have a few frays along the bottom but fit so perfectly that no one really cares about a couple of love frays anyway, right?), a white button-up shirt, black boots with heels, my gaudy-but-beloved Ganesh necklace, and a pair of diamond stud earrings – it IS Pinehurst, afterall. People there dress up.
When we arrived at the resort, I felt… um… a little out of place.
Photo courtesy of Pinehurst.com.
After wandering down an immaculate hallway with no less than what I estimate to be 5,837 white columns and 432 gold and crystal chandeliers, we stumbled into a bar area full of women in ball gowns and men in tuxedos. Dear God, this can’t be the right place.
We ambled down another hallway and a set of stairs, and there, finally, was the Festival of Trees. We still might have been the only people wearing jeans, but at least we were no longer in Tuxedo Ally. Like any good friend of mine would, Christie steered us immediately towards the cash bar so we could each get a glass of wine. While we knew we wouldn’t be able to afford any of the $300-$6,000 auction packages, a glass of cabernet was certainly not beyond our budget. Even in Pinehurst. And hey – it was for the children.
I’m not the type of person to spend a lot of money on holiday décor – hell, I don’t spend a lot of money on regular décor since I prefer to surround myself with photos or art that I love and acquire over time. But I did enjoy looking at all of the creative tree ideas. They had everything from under-the-sea themed trees to trees made entirely of wine bottles (my kind of tree).
Blurry photo courtesy of my phone’s camera.
I also came away with an interesting ornament idea that I could easily make myself – and let’s face it – already have the major component on-hand:
Blurry photo courtesy of my phone’s camera and 1.4 glasses of wine on an empty stomach.
After an hour of
counting the number of Mr. Rodgers sweaters that crossed our path looking at decorations and well into our second glass of wine, Christie asked me to hold her glass while she used the ladies’ room. So there I was, in a semi-buzzed happy place and double-fisting some ruby red while hoping no one noticed the button dangling from one precarious string off the sleeve of my peacoat, when a guy in a suit and tie approached me with a big smile and a jovial, “Where do I know you from?!”
“Um… maybe around Fayetteville?” He seemed nice, late 20’s, and it was entirely possible we’d met somewhere, though I seriously doubted we swam in the same social pools.
“No, that’s impossible. I never go out.”
“Or, if I do go out,” he continued, “I usually get way too plastered to remember anyone I meet.”
I gave the appropriate on-cue laugh and tried to figure out where we possibly could have met. Eventually he asked if my husband and I lived in the area, and I explained that we lived in a town about 45 minutes away. He seemed flustered for a second, but quickly recovered and mumbled something to the effect of, “Well, I’m still not going to pass this up. Here’s my card. Call me if you ever want to get together.” And with a smile, he was off.
I was stunned.
Was I just hit on? By a person in a suit with a grown-up business card?
I know, I know. I should have realized this from the very beginning, but the approach, while completely cliché, was so convincing! Is my cluelessness a result of the fact that I’ve been off the market for almost 8 years, or is it simply because I’m used to the forward, abrasive drunk guy at a bar asking my boobs if they want to go home with him tonight – not the guy with a suit and a business card, for crying out loud.
And here I thought the fact that I almost never get carded anymore was the only major indicator that I am, in fact, getting older.
For what it’s worth, I have the number for an apparently-eligible Assistant Golf Professional with an airtight approach if any of you single ladies out there are interested.