A rich person is not one who has the most, but is one who needs the least. ~Author unknown
So, Saturday night Tom and I ventured into the "Big D" for date night.
We don't often make the 30 minute drive, but the town we live in is the epitome of a "bedroom community" (to qualify: even on a Saturday night, the restaurants close up by 9:30 p.m.). There was a gift certificate involved, so that made the drive "extra" worth it!
Never having eaten at this very fine steakhouse in "the city", I consulted a friend who has more experience with this type of fine dining. I asked her if denim would be appropriate at said establishment, she replied, "Yes, if you dress it up." Awesome! Any idiot can do that, right?!
Setting my usual Levi's aside, I slipped into my Rock & Republics (the ones with the bling on the butt), then added a black belt with a shiny silver buckle. Fancy, right? I pulled on a "fine-gauge" black turtleneck sweater, the LARGE silver cross and earrings (not my "everyday" stuff). I even flat-ironed my hair and put on some makeup! Finished it off with my favorite black boots and BAM! Ready to roll...
I want to tell you I was the swankiest chick in the place, but I'd be lying through my teeth.
In fact, I should have known I was in trouble the minute we pulled into the parking lot.
We drove the Suburban (thank GOD, I cannot even imagine the hysterics the valets would have been in if we had pulled up in the 2003 minivan!!) A nice young man opened my door, but said nothing to me as I got out and headed toward the entrance of the restaurant. (I made mental note, but quickly moved past it once we entered the building).
My panic grew as we walked past the hostess station (I know there is probably a fancier term for this, but nothing comes to mind) which housed half a dozen twenty-somethings. Each Victoria Secret model wanna-be had long hair (various shades), flowing, voluminous loose curls, all wore teeny-tiny dresses and 5-inch stiletto heels.
We saunter into the [incredibly packed] bar (economic struggles?! where??) and I ordered a "house" chardonnay, $10. (We'll be lucky if the gift certificate covers our beverages for the night...).
Off to find a small corner so we can stand and people watch...
There was indeed some denim in the room, unfortunately it was on the men. As I perused the room, I took note of what was apparently the "appropriate" female attire...teeny-tiny dresses and stiletto heels.
My friend must have eaten here on a weeknight.
Shortly thereafter, we were ushered to a lovely corner table. (I thought at the time it was really nice of the hostess to give us a corner table, upon reflection I wonder if my fashion faux pas had anything to do with the seating selection...).
The atmosphere was STUNNING. The energy of the crowd was intense. I wanted to take pictures! Tom said, "Kim, this is not a place where you whip out the camera." (This was said in a tone that convinced me he would literally walk away from the table if I pulled my camera out of my Vera Bradly hipster).
"Fine," I said.
The food was SPECTACULAR! The prices were just as amazing.
I am not going to lie, I felt WAYYYYYYY out of my league. And then I thought, "why?!"
These fancy-schmancy people all pull their pants on one leg at a time. They might drive expensive cars, wear expensive clothes and jewelry, and they keep ordering $300 bottles of wine, but in the end, does that really matter?!
Ninety minutes later [as the restaurant was turning over for it's 4th sitting of the night] we passed on the $15 desserts (although they looked DELICIOUS!) and headed out to the valet.
There were several parties ahead of us. Two Ferraris, one Bentley, and three BMWs later our used Chevy Suburban graced us with it's presence.
I will never be a "fancy" gal, I am okay with that. Hopefully my husband is as well.
Here's to living simply...