The Daughter made me buy a deeply discounted party dress the other day when we were cruising the outlets.

“Where am I going to wear this?”  I asked her.

“I don’t know.  You go places,” she responded.  “Maybe New Year’s Eve.  You have to buy it, it’s just so classy.  It’s so You.”

“Oh, I just don’t know…”  I carried it to the dressing room.  I only have one plan for New Year’s Eve, and it involves my couch, the television, and a bottle of Champagne.

“You have a million party dresses that have only been worn once,”  The Shrew who lives in my head piped in, as I stood, looking at my image in a charcoal gray dupioni silk with embroidered silver polka dots, fitted waist, and slightly poufy, knee-length skirt.

“Season-spanning,” I told The Shrew.  “Versatile.  A great buy.  I have a pale gray Pashmina I could wear with it and about five different pairs of shoes, not to mention a wide selection of rhinestone earrings and bracelets, representing a lifetime of never cleaning my closet.”

“You already made up your mind before you even tried it on, didn’t you?”  The Shrew looked back at me from the mirror.  “You’re pathetic.”

“So, we can buy it?”  I smiled brightly as The Shrew rolled our eyes.

I am addicted to the sparkly.  To the glittery.  Like a crow to bits of glass in the sun.  Me.  A woman who spends more of her life in jeans or yoga pants or leggings, writing or going to the grocery store or to rehearsal or church.  There’s hope in the flash, the distraction.  I have an overstuffed closet full of hope:

1986, when I was still a brunette.

2004, after I became a blonde.

Oooo, look!  Here’s the sequined dress that I bought for a veterinary gala in 1986, when I was still a brunette.  And here’s the beaded black silk cardigan that I always wore with a floor-length skirt when we went on cruises.  Here’s the gold metallic sweater that I wore once with the striped evening pants.  The silver lace mini-skirt.  I forgot I had the white angora shrug with the silver beading.  It would be perfect with the new dress.  The clear slingbacks with the rhinestone trim.  The silver satin slingbacks.  The black strappy sandals.  The black pumps with the rhinestone heels.

After I hung up the new dress in my Closet of Hope, I realized that my New Year’s Eve plans call for a Spartan green sweatshirt and black yoga pants with the Sparty logo, and the Cotton Bowl at 8 in the evening.

I wish it was the Rose Bowl, because the Rose Bowl is on New Year’s Day and was always the pinnacle of football success in the Dark Ages, when I was a kid.  It has the best parade with the most amazing floats made out of flowers and vegetation, marvels of engineering and art.

Now, we have this farce of playoffs and playing for the national championship.  We can’t just have tradition.  The Cotton Bowl doesn’t even have a parade any more.  According to Wikipedia (if you can trust it), the parade became the Comerica Bank Parade and then died.  Kinda like my dating hopes.

But we’re in a major bowl game!  Anything can happen!

DATE UPDATE:

Another of my friends recently began a relationship with a man she met on match.com, so I re-enrolled on Sunday.  I posted all new photos, changed my profile name, and wrote a lovely, non-sarcastic profile.

Am I stupid or what?

The first man to contact me was on when I was on last year.  In all nine of his photos, his grandchildren are crawling all over him.  They are the “joy of his life.”  Great.  Enjoy them.  I’m not a baby-sitter.

The second man is a scammer from last year.

The third is a self-professed widower from Texas.  A Google Image Search shows that his profile photo belongs to a man with a wife in Illinois.  He wrote an interesting email, so I responded, “Aren’t there taller and richer women in Texas?”  He said I shouldn’t discount love whether it is found in Texas or Maryland.  Do you see my problem?

Overnight, there was another self-professed widower, a local guy without a profile photo, whose profile name was one thing, but he signed his email with an entirely different name.  He was witty and flirty and literate.  His profile says he’s looking for an “honest, sincere woman.”  He asked me to meet him for coffee.

I told him, “I make no promises, especially since you have the advantage of being invisible…I’ll consider having coffee with you, if you can reveal yourself a little more. Looks aren’t everything, but it helps if your written description is corroborated in some way.”

His reply?

“I couldn’t use my own email address here…I don’t know how to post photos…meet me for coffee so we don’t waste time on photos.”  And he wants an “honest, sincere woman.”  Ha!

My reply?

“Get back to me when you’ve resolved your issues.”

<sigh>

He won’t be seeing me in the cute gray dress with the silvery polka dots.

Of course, I’ll be on my couch with smoked salmon mousse and Champagne cheering on the Spartans in my green Spartan fan-gear. After we swiftly staunch the Tide (and I know all my Auburn friends will be cheering with me), I’ll turn off the drunken celebrities slurring their top-40 hits in Times Square.  I hope to be asleep at midnight when the neighbors start the fireworks, cherry bombs, and automatic rifles, at which point the BFF will run from window to window, barking ferociously, setting off the glass breakage alarm.  The alarm company will call and ask repeatedly,

“Are you all right?”  “Are you sure you are all right?”  “Is everything secure?”  “Do you need assistance?”

My answers will be, “Yes.”  “Yes, I am.”  “Yes, it is.”  “Send a cute and honest man with a bottle of Champagne, asap.”

Still, it’s better than being in a crowd of couples who probably met on match.com, kissing at midnight.  The BFF may not be much of a kisser, but she’s honest.

There’s hope for 2016.  College basketball season is upon us, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!

And GO GREEN!