I wore sequins. I wore heels. I was the only one.
Call me old-fashioned, but there was a time when the New Year’s Eve dress code meant something. Women wore gowns. Men wore suits. Everyone understood that midnight deserved effort. Now I attend parties where people show up in what I can only describe as “giving up.”
I spent three hours getting ready last night. Hair, makeup, the works. I wore a floor-length sequined dress I bought specifically for the occasion—on sale, but still. When I arrived at my neighbor’s gathering, a woman answered the door in leggings. Leggings. On New Year’s Eve. She looked at my dress and said, “Oh, fun.”
Fun. As if glamour is a costume now.
The New Year’s Eve Dress Code I Remember
When I was younger—and I was very young not that long ago—New Year’s Eve was the event. My mother would start planning her outfit in November. My grandmother had a fur stole she only wore twice a year: Christmas Mass and New Year’s Eve. These women understood that how you present yourself matters.
Now I look around and see athleisure. I see jeans. I see men in untucked shirts who think “dress casual” means they remembered to wear a belt. My grandmother would be rolling in her grave, though she’d probably be too well-dressed to roll.
Last night, I counted exactly two other women in dresses. One was the hostess, who changed into pajama pants by 10:30. The other was someone’s elderly aunt who, bless her heart, at least remembered what the occasion meant.
They Looked At Me Like I Was The Problem
Here’s what really stings. When you’re the only person who dressed up, people don’t admire your commitment. They look at you like you misread the invitation. A man in a hoodie asked if I was “coming from somewhere else.” I was not coming from somewhere else. I was coming from my house, where I got ready, because that’s what you do.
“You look amazing,” one woman said, in the tone people use when they mean “you look insane.”
My daughter McKayleigh, who was there for approximately forty minutes before leaving for a “better party,” told me I was “doing a lot.” She was wearing sneakers. Designer sneakers, but still. I didn’t raise her like this. Well, her father has her most weekends now, so I suppose I should say I didn’t intend to raise her like this.
Glamour Isn’t Dead, It’s Just Me Now
I left at 11:45. I told everyone I had somewhere else to be, which was technically true—my couch, my dog Reagan, and a very nice bottle of Prosecco I’d been saving. I watched the ball drop alone, in my sequined dress, with my heels still on because I have standards.
Maybe I’m the last woman in America who believes New Year’s Eve deserves more than yoga pants. Maybe that makes me outdated. Maybe that makes me ridiculous.
But at least I’ll never be the woman who answered the door in leggings.
Pour me another one. Happy New Year.
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