Getting dressed in the morning is one of my most dreaded tasks.
Needless to say, it is one of the first tasks of the day. Thus, the activity of getting dressed sets my day up perfectly, in my mind. Note the sarcasm, please and thank you.
Getting forced to slip on countless undergarments, having your feet forced into unyielding, hard shoes with stupidly insensitive, high heels that make life miserable, and then I'm not even mentioning the dresses.
Oh, the dresses. I am not sighing dreamily, here, by the way. I am sighing with pure existential dread. Note the distinction here, please, and thank you again. Mother says I complain too much. That it isn't becoming of a young woman of my social status. Now, I want to note that this is not me complaining, as much as me simply setting the scene. One must be aware of the hellish ordeal I am faced with every single morning of every single day of my life to appreciate the gravitas of what it means for me when I mention my most dreaded little word to ever slip from my mother's lips. 'Ball'.
A ball, to me, means triple the faff of a normal dressing up. A ball means I am finding myself exactly where I am now, seated in front of my mirror as my maid tries to wrestle my hair into nice, neat, tidy ringlets suited for the occasion, while I attempt to keep my expression as mild and pleasant as possible, trying not to scrunch up my face in pain each time she yanks slightly too hard at my poor, innocent hair.
And without sounding dramatic, this, getting dressed up like a donkey for sale, is probably the better part of the evening that is to follow. Hours of standing around in the most awful shoes (which by the way, are totally pointless as no one can even see them under my dress -I could be going barefoot for all anyone knows), talking to the most boring of people, and if I'm particularly unlucky, dancing. And this ball will certainly have dancing. My father has just managed to entrap a new partner into his ever-growing law firm, this time some American straight off the boat. Mr Orson? Mr Olsen?
Anyway, it is due to be a boring, tedious celebration. Is it not highly amusing that the word we've chosen to describe the above is the same word for great enjoyment -to have a ball. Something does not compute here, because a ball is certainly not somewhere I have a ball. Maybe this time I might sneak some of the alcoholic punch into my cup before my mother catches me...
"Sit still, miss, please." My maid, Lucinda, reminds me in her firm tone as I shiver involuntarily of the thought of being forced to partake in the... dancing....
"Apologies." I smile at her through the mirror and she squints at me suspiciously, probably knowing full well what is going through my head at this very moment. It isn't like I keep these thoughts to myself, anyhow.
"We are almost done, miss." She informs me, her attention pulled back to my hair, which to give Lucinda credit, does look rather nice in its half-up-half-down do, ringlets and all. I just hope the satin band on the side of my dresser is not one she is planning to finish the look off with.
"Thank you, Lucinda." I sigh, looking down at my hands in my lap, beginning to pick at the skin around my unlucky fourth finger on my left hand.
"You are particularly quiet this evening, miss. I was expecting more of your usual... candour." Lucinda speaks with a smile in her tone and I can't help but grin down at my lap.
"Don't tell me you're missing my opinion on this whole entirely pointless event which is taking up this otherwise lovely evening I could have spent actually doing something useful?"
"Useful? And what would that have been, miss?"
"Reading, for one." I look up, meeting Lucinda's gaze through the mirror, falling for her bait. I know the game she's playing at; trying to get me to talk about something that makes me happy so I won't be in the most awful mood from the get-go.
