The Two Betrayals of the L.B.D.

Sartorially speaking, the Little Black Dress (L.B.D.) is the wingman of your closet. Oft underappreciated, often told "[--] is the new black," (Fashion journalists who use that trite phrase should be strung up and forced to eat fried chicken. Orange is the new black? Bite me.), everyone knows the L.B.D. is one of the few things you can depend on in your short, superficial life. I have only heard of two occasions in which the little black dress went horribly, egregiously wrong. Read on, dahlings:

#1

7:05 a.m. Friday morning, I wake up. My train for the airport left at 6:59 a.m. I'm still drunk, and I haven't packed for Amsterdam. I begin a stream of cursing that would a grown man blush.

Throw on my black dress, and my hold-up tights, knee-high boots, and toss 3 pairs of jeans and 1 T-Shirt into my carry-on. (Again, I was still drunk)

Pouring rain outside; I get drenched and roll up to Farringdon Station 45 minutes late. Sharing the track with me is a middle-aged Bangladeshi man. We share a brief membership in The Brotherhood Of 'OH MY GOD WE'RE GOING TO MISS OUR FLIGHTS,' East London division. He looks at his watch when I tell him when my plane leaves and I can see a flash of sincere sympathy. Or maybe he was just confused why I still smelled of gin.

I get to the Airport train station in hysterics, hail yet another cab to the actual airport terminal, and begin the best sprint of my life. At the beginning I'm thinking, 'Sure, this is a little Home Alone-esque, but damn, I'm good at running while drunk! That gym membership is paying off!'

25 minutes later, I am pretty sure I'm actually approaching death. I arrive at the massive Security hall, which is completely empty. I come panting in, sprinting in my black dress and boots. The sides of my stockings are now about half way down my thighs.

Which, it turns out, allof the (all-male? seriously, why?) staff of Luton Airport noticed. By the time I ran through to the X-ray machines, they were lined up like a chorus line with bags of popcorn. I heard mutterings about 'tart' and 'crumpet,' and I'm pretty sure they weren't talking about food

'IhavetomakethisflightI'msorryIthinkIhaveliquidsinthisbagohpleasepleaseletmethrough" I say to the security dude, frantically hiking up my stockings so the lacy bits don't show.

(Note: it is impossible to do that subtly.)

He takes pity on me, and waves me through, liquids and all.

Regaining my momentum, I sprint to my gate, flailing wildly through packs of men on Lads' Weekends. More laughter, more nasty British slang and giggles. It had never occurred to me, however, that perhaps, just maybe, the hoards of chavs would be headed for...Amsterdam. So, for the last 10 minutes of my jog, I'd been running through my fellow passengers, making me look like, That Freak Who Really Really Wants To Be The First Damn Person On The Flight.

Friday, Saturday, Sunday: Amsterdam. Amsterdam is gorgeous:

#2

Wake up, Monday morning 6 a.m., and begin to commute into work. From Amsterdam. Except it occurred to me that:

a) I haven't brushed my hair in three days, due to poor drunken packing decisions. (No brush, no soap, nada)

b) I don't have any business clothes.

Grab the same Little Black Dress. "Ehh," it's short, I think, but high-collared, fancy enough, and quite excellent all around (Love you, Topshop, mwah.) Get to the airport in fine shape, get into work more or less on time, at which point it occurs to me my commute into London, from Amsterdam, was better than many people's commutes within London/Southeast England. Rawk.

Then, I get a call from a secretary in the afternoon. I have to pick up a visa for a partner.

…at the Saudi Embassy.

I call almost everyone I know from the chauffered Merc on the way. London is freaking beautiful, by the way. (When the sun shines. Or at least between The City and Mayfair, through all the parks. In a chauffeured car.) I walk into the embassy, with a book, the paperwork, and no expectations. Al-Arabiyya is blasting in the corner, and I'm getting one hell of a look from the guys behind the counter. It occurs to me to chide my hairstylist for dying my hair Russian Hooker Blonde this time around.

I'm comforted by the fact that while, yes, I may be wearing an outfit that is best kept for Saturday Night, at least I can read these documents in Arabic. (Through all my years of Arabic classes, I think all we ever did was read visa applications. I couldn't order a coffee, but I can tell you the words for 'multiple-entry visa')

I'm patient, because I don't want to cross the huge room one more time—finally, as the office is closing I approach the window. "Very sorry, but any chance of getting this passport back?" He asks when we dropped it off. I understand, from other people's moaning, that you had to drop it off on the previous Wednesday for Monday pick up. I know that we had dropped it off that day.

I feign ignorance."I'm sorry, I don't really know anything."

He gives me a long look. "Eez okay, I print for you now."

Maybe it was the perfect occasion for the Little Black Dress, after all.*

*(Oh what a shamefully Sex and the City last sentence. Oops.)