“It looks like something Vanna White wore on Wheel of Fortune,” I said.
“It’s not that bad.” But a little smile flickered on his lips and I knew he secretly agreed with me.
“Actually,” I said, looking at myself in the mirror, “I’m pretty sure she wore this exact dress. What am I going to do? It looked so much better online.”
“Why don’t you just wear one of the other ones?” Matt said. I’d rented three different dresses from Rent the Runway, one for each of the balls we were going to — the Black Tie and Boots ball on Saturday (as guests of Jimmy and Ash, of course), the official Inaugural Ball on Monday, and the Staff Ball on Tuesday.
“I can’t do that!” I said. “We’re going to see all the same people at them.” Even Ash, who was almost nine months pregnant, had three different maternity gowns to wear. No one was messing around.
Matt just shrugged his shoulders, knowing that anything he suggested wasn’t going to calm me down as I stood bedazzled in front of him. After a flurry of text exchanges with Ash, I decided my best bet was to head to Friendship Heights, where there were a million stores and had to be at least one suitable dress. But when I got there, every department store looked like it had been ransacked, like a looting had taken place. Who was I kidding? It was the Saturday before the inauguration and every female in DC was desperate for a gown. I tried on one dress that was a size double zero and got stuck as I attempted to pull it over my head, sweating in the dressing room for almost twenty minutes while I swore silently and prayed it wouldn’t rip. There were a few other women there too, circling the store like hyenas, examining the leftover dresses, searching for anything salvageable. Somehow, among the scraps, I found one long black dress that wasn’t horrible. I knew I’d never wear it again, but I bought it immediately. It would have to do.
—
I hadn’t gone to any of the balls in 2009—Matt was working that night and I was still in New York anyway and wasn’t all that interested. But this year, I was dying to go. I imagined all of us, in gowns and tuxes, sipping champagne and eating cheese while we watched the Obamas dance. It would be sort of like Downton Abbey, but with everyone taking selfies the whole time.
After all the excitement and stress of the election, things had been quiet. And while we were thrilled with the outcome, part of me almost missed how purposeful election season had been — all of our energy had been directed at that one thing. Now, without hours of MSNBC to watch and debates to discuss, we had time on our hands. We were lost. The balls were a reason to celebrate again, something to shake us out of our funk.
The Black Tie and Boots ball was crazy — it was less like a ball and more like a gathering of superdrunk Texans. Ash wore a red shiny dress and a cowboy hat and brought along another tiny cowboy hat that she perched on her stomach. Jimmy (of course) wore his cowboy boots. I’d gotten a blow-out that day and asked them to make it “big,” thinking that would be festive, but it looked tame compared to everyone else’s. At one point, the band played “Deep in the Heart of Texas,” and Matt and I got caught in some sort of mosh pit. Our eyes met as we were tossed around by all the rowdy, singing Texans, and I thought for sure it would be the end of us. We had no choice but to join in and wound up drinking whiskey until morning.
The next day, we ignored our hangovers and went to an Iowa reunion party at the Hilton across the street, where I tripped on my heels and fell forward, hitting my head on David Axelrod’s back. He was nice about it, but I was mortified and Matt said later, “You just need to watch where you’re going,” like I was a reckless child.
On Monday, Ash and I got our hair done in the afternoon and then went back to my place to hang out until it was time to get ready. She’d brought her stuff over so that we could get dressed together — we thought it would be more fun that way. “Like prom,” she said, and then pointed to her stomach. “Well, not exactly like prom.”
We sat on the couch and chatted, sitting upright so we wouldn’t ruin our hair. I was already exhausted from the previous two nights and I could feel my eyes closing, and wished I could take a quick nap, but I felt like I couldn’t complain in front of Ash, who was going to all the same parties as I was, but carrying an extra person around. She was so pregnant that crowds parted as they saw her stomach coming toward them, which was actually a really helpful way to navigate the parties. “I’m fine,” she kept saying. I think she was tired of everyone widening their eyes when they saw her and saying, “Whoa,” like they thought she was going to go into labor right then and there. And still, she insisted on wearing heels. Which almost seemed dangerous, but she assured me she could handle it.
Jimmy got dressed at home and then came over, so we could all ride together, and when Ash and I were done putting on our makeup, we found him and Matt sitting on the couch, each holding a beer and looking bleary.
“How are we doing?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Matt said. “This is like senior week, only now we’re old.”
“You ladies look beautiful,” Jimmy said, standing up and stretching.
“Beth does, at least,” Ash said. “I look like a float in a parade.”
“But the most beautiful float I’ve ever seen,” Jimmy said, and Ash stuck her tongue out at him.
Jimmy went out to flag down a cab, which took about twenty minutes. We didn’t talk much on the ride there, but I was still excited for the night. In 2009, there had been ten balls that Obama attended, but this year there were just two, and they were both in the Convention Center, on different floors. We were attending the “official” ball, but had gotten good tickets, and Jimmy somehow finagled us passes to a VIP area, where we sat on couches and had access to an open bar. We were in a raised loft that overlooked the room, and we watched as different performers took the stage, laughing and cheering when Alicia Keys sang, “Obama’s on Fire.”
The ball itself wasn’t exactly what I had expected. The Convention Center was huge, and we walked for what felt like miles once we were inside and had checked our coats. There was draping everywhere — to separate the different areas mostly, but also I think to try to make the place look nicer. The whole thing felt like a really big wedding in a warehouse that someone tried to disguise as a ballroom. As we walked to the VIP area, we passed tables of vegetables and dip, and long lines of people waiting for a drink from the bar.
I was afraid we’d all be too tired to enjoy it, but we woke up once we were there and had a few drinks. It helped that it felt like they were pumping oxygen into the cold room, like we were in Vegas. As the night went on, Jimmy was able to get more and more of our friends into our section, and soon it felt like we had our own personal area of the ball. Alan kept fidgeting in his tux, and Benji, with his bow tie already undone, looked so young that he really could have passed for someone going to prom. Lissy and Cameron were there, wearing matching dresses, both from Rent the Runway. “We didn’t coordinate before we ordered,” Lissy told me with a strained smile, like she was trying her best to find it amusing. “That was our mistake.”
Cameron shrugged like she couldn’t have cared less. “I’ve already seen three other women wearing this anyway,” she said. I think she was trying to make Lissy feel better, but instead, Lissy’s eyes got wide.
“Well, that’s just great,” she said. “The worst part is, we can’t stand next to each other for the whole night.” And then she turned and walked away in a huff.