I’m attending an event this evening in which “cocktail attire” has been requested. Twenty years ago an invitation of this sort would have sent this recipient into paroxysms of delight and hours of planning, gathering and beautifying. Today, in desperate need of a haircut, I’m wondering:
A. Can I squeeze my fat ass into the black silk pants?
B. Will said fat ass then freeze off when negotiating the frozen streets of Denver?
What a difference 20 years make.
I’ll either wear this, sans flip flops and avec mohair:

Or this, sans pencil skirt and avec cigarette pants:
