Gala season is officially upon us, which means I’m digging through a whole other section of my closet for the next few months.
It used to be rare to have any events before October, but now things kick off in the middle of September, with every organisation from Insurance Managers Association of Cayman to the Breast Cancer Foundation and National Gallery filling the weekends that follow.
I emcee a lot of the galas and host their live auctions, if needed. As I rarely charge the charities, I don’t know if they ask me because I’m good or because I’m cheap. I choose to believe the former.
I never had any formal training as an auctioneer, but I gained some experience before trying my hand at fundraising. In a much earlier life and job, I was asked – out of the blue – to pretty please auction off some seized goods. The person who had been asked to do it was terrified about speaking in public and basically knew me to be a bit of a loudmouth with a performance background. With 24 hours’ notice, I agreed, and then spent that night watching any videos I could of auctioneers doing their thing. At least I wasn’t going to have to worry about phone-in bids for this one.
On the day, a small crowd gathered in a rather depressing setting – a dirt lot with bits of litter strewn about – as I stood in front of an old mini-warehouse with a rusty open door. It wasn’t exactly a day at Sotheby’s. There were only a few items to be auctioned, thank goodness, as nerves took over at the beginning. I rattled off the description of the first lot at lightning speed, and then started at a ridiculously low price, increasing by only small increments, which meant the bidding went on forever. I think I was worried about starting too high and getting crickets in return.
Just as I was beginning to get the hang of it, it was over. I’m pretty sure I bungled a couple of the bid amounts, but otherwise emerged relatively unscathed. As there were no complaints afterwards, I immediately became the go-to person for future seizure auctions. The surroundings didn’t improve, but at least I became better at the job. Who knew I was practising for fancy charity dinners years later?
Back then, I certainly wasn’t expected to wear my glad rags in an abandoned parking lot, but of course when it came to hosting events in the swanky ballrooms on the island, I had to dress the part. In the first few years, I really went all out. Different outfit for each gala, high-heeled shoes, and hair professionally done. I had to bash away a sea of taffeta and velvet in my wardrobe just to get to the jeans and T-shirts.
After a while, I started scaling back and making smarter choices. The heels may have looked nice, but two hours into jogging back and forth from my table to the stage, I felt like one of the sisters in Cinderella trying to cram her size 9 into a delicate glass slipper. My feet were killing me, so I either had to go barefoot or resign myself to walking like John Wayne. I didn’t want anything to distract me while I was hosting the auction, so I decided to wear floor-length ballgowns that could hide the sneakers I was sporting. There were some dodgy moments when I tripped over the hem and nearly fell flat on my face behind the podium, but it was worth the risk for my tootsies’ relief.
The next thing that went out with the bathwater was the professional hairdo. When you’ve got something resembling a bald eagle’s nest on your noggin, it takes a good few hours to tame it into something glossy and elegant. By the time the wonderful stylists had worked their magic, I was suffering from numb bum. Plus it meant I couldn’t get a cheeky nap in before the evening, lest I squashed it all on one side, and then hidden bobby pins were still driving their way into my scalp the morning after.
These days, no one could mistake my own clumsy up-do with the work of a revered salon, but it’s a much more practical solution. That’s what age has done to me – comfort over class.
As far as the clothes are concerned, I stopped worrying about repeating outfits. Who remembered what I was wearing from year-to-year anyway and besides, who was I? Emily in Paris?
Yes, it’s wonderful to dress up for all of these magical evenings and it really gets you in the mood for the festive season, but if I’m going to make it to Christmas without knee surgery, I need to make some sacrifices.
Of course, you’ll never catch me without makeup, deodorant or wearing a casual ensemble – there’s only so far I’m willing to go – but showers are kinda overrated … right?
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