There were words like glamorous, stunning, radiant, and classic. Unfortunate, ill-fitting, painful, and boring. Socially acceptable, cute, appropriate, and creative. And that was in only the first hour of red carpet arrivals.
It is awards season and, yes, I stayed up until nearly 11 o’clock watching the Golden Globes one week ago today. Did I like that dress? Why yes, I did. That one? Mmmmm, not so much. And although I kept my eyes open past my usual bedtime, it was fun seeing all of the big celebs from television and big screen converging into one ballroom for the night. Nevermind that I had not seen one single movie that was nominated. Nevermind that I hadn’t seen half of the television shows that were nominated, either. It’s awards season.
And it got me to thinking. What would it be like to walk a red carpet? Just once …
Whenever a celebrity is interviewed on the red carpet, the most asked question of the night is inevitably,“Who are you wearing?”
Gucci. Ralph Lauren. Dolce and Gabbana. Carolina Herrera. Tom Ford. Calvin Klein.
Designer names were being uttered every five seconds. In my hypothetical walk down the red carpet, would I be so lucky as to don designer duds? Would I even want to? I more than kind of like my own clothes.
“Who are you wearing?” they would ask me.
Dare I say Target? I did buy a rather smart blouse there not too long ago. Yes, I’d say Target. Only I would soften the ending, make it sound more sophisticated.
“Oh,” they would inquire. “Is that from France?”
No, I would answer. It’s from by the Publix, not far down from Chick-fil-A.
“Why would you be there?” my daughter asked of my hypothetical invitation to the Golden Globes or… what the heck… the Oscars. Was I nominated for something?
The summer of my 9th-grade year, I played a disgruntled orange in a skit at 4-H day camp.
If I remember correctly, it was a very off, off Broadway adaptation of the importance of the four food groups, and my pivotal part was that of a piece of fruit angry over the fact that not enough people chose to include me in their daily diet. Our audience: elementary school kids. My costume: a tragic pair of orange sweatpants and an orange t-shirt that started out white, but met their fateful color at the hands of a bottle of Sunshine Orange Rit dye. I was in full character. I even ate an orange before my performance.
I don’t like to brag, but people did say that I was quite convincing as citrus.
Maybe the Academy heard of my fruitful performance. Maybe I am being honored for costume design. I haven’t quite decided what my hypothetical award will be. But when my name is called — and it will be because this is my stupid fantasy — I will make my way to the stage and immediately show my respect by saying how proud I am to be mentioned in the same breath as the ladies I beat — Meryl Streep, Kate Winslet, Helen Mirran. I will smile, be humbled, and thank my mother for helping me dye my sweat pants. Will I shed a hypothetical tear? Perhaps. Perhaps.
But it will be okay. Because in the end, we all know that it’s just an honor to be nominated.
Email Mandy Flynn at firstname.lastname@example.org.