Cinderella Story

Once upon a time, my friends assigned me my most similar Disney princess. Her name? Cinderella. Until this weekend, I wasn't convinced about how fitting that designation was. Then I had my own little Cinderella story. Look at the time on the clock in the following photo:



It's reversed in the mirror, so I'll tell you: it says 9:34 p.m. That's right. I know that the Cinderella story you're used to hearing has an "ending" around midnight, and her happily ever after involves a prince that's charming. My story ends at about 9:34, contains a little less magic, and ends with... you'll just have to see.

You see, Friday night was a Cinderella ball. I'm a pretty girly-girl in many ways, but I don't know that I often feel the need to get all dolled up. I think I'd rather be a girl that looks super cute in a sweatshirt and pajama bottoms than one who cleans up nicely. (Not to say that I am that girl, just that I'd like to be.) Of course there are times I'll get all dressed up, but I just don't get that elated, princess feeling when I do. Call me "odd." Seriously. I might even answer to it.

The "ball" started at about 7, but I couldn't make it to the beginning. I guess I had some Cinderella-like chores to get done before I could go. I told my friend that I would be ready to meet her around 8:30, so I would give her a call to find out the details. She said that would be great and we both went about getting ready. (She thought that she'd probably go earlier, so I'd just meet her there.)

I curled my hair and put it up, put on my fancy dress (Which I'm sick of people calling a prom dress, by the way. It's not a prom dress; I didn't wear it to prom and I wouldn't wear it to prom. I don't know why that bothers me so much, so we'll let it go.) and a velvety shirt -- to make it a little warmer -- and put on my favorite shoes:

I looked at the clock: 8:30 right on the nose. I hopped in the car, and called my friend. I knew the general vicinity of the party, but not the exact address. After a few phone calls, random searching, and a somewhat impatient message that said something like: "I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go. Call me back," I moved to Plan B. I called her house to see if I could get directions to the party from someone there. Fortunately, her kind sister-in-law gave me the address and I was on track again.

I pulled up to the ball in my Hyundai (not exactly as glamorous as a converted pumpkin, but I'm sure it has better tunes) and geared myself up to walk into the party all alone. I wasn't sure if my friend was there and she was the only person I knew. I'm sometimes brave and I like people, but there's something about that idea that is very intimidating to me. Nevertheless, I trekked forward through the snow in my heels. (This is when it's convenient to have a Prince Charming. Kindly offered arms make very good stabilizers. Thank you to all the gentlemen in the world.)

When I got to the door, it was locked. Yes, locked. I saw the crowd through the window, all seated classroom style (peculiar for a ball), and spotted my friend. I tried to call again. No answer. I tried three more doors -- all locked. I laughed a little and thought to myself, "I guess this isn't meant to be."

So, I hopped back in my car, went home, changed clothes and my happy ending looked a little something like this: