The Night I was Beautiful
The night I was beautiful, I didn’t know it. It wasn’t until pictures were posted and comments came pouring in that I understood what was happening. I was 48 years old, out in New York City, I was shining and, now I know, I was beautiful.
But the night I was beautiful, I missed the whole thing.
I was exhausted and consumed with thoughts of, When will this bout of insomnia end? The answer is probably, Not until my daughter chooses a college for next year and I know how I’m going to pay for it all.
The morning of the night I was beautiful, I was late for work, rushed and hurried. I knew I would have to get from Islip Terrace to Melville to Copiague to Penn Station. From there, I’d have to hail a cab to 54th Street. I don’t have the confidence to navigate the subway system alone.
The day of the night I was beautiful, I wore jeans and UGGs to work and hoped that I’d left a decent pair of heels in Copiague. I wanted to change into a black gown I’d worn at the company Christmas party in 2023. It was a fancy dress, and I was going to a fancy event.