Fun Greenie

What I wore, and didn't wear to a London wedding.

Dec 23, 2024

This was taken when I bought Fun Greenie, which, if you must know, was in 2018.

I’m torn between two dresses. One is low-cut, black and long, the other, calf-length, green, and elegant. Both feel like good options for the London wedding I’m desperately trying to pack for. It’s a short trip, so I’ll carry on (in more ways than one, let’s be honest.) But in my defense, there’s a lot to consider:

A pub party (pub crawl?) on Thursday night. What does one wear to such a thing? Fun dress? Pants and top with cute boots? Jumpsuit? I want options! I can’t have options! Boo!

A walking-around outfit for the Friday before the wedding.
A Friday dinner outfit. Again, options would be nice.
Hungover debrief clothes for the Sunday after the wedding - cozy cashmere, easy pants? Jeans?
A cosmetic bag that can barely contain the serums, de-puffers, skin-plumpers and moisturizers that one little face requires.
Hair stuff.
Bras, underwear, pj’s, a little evening bag for the wedding, good God, how do people do this?

I wish I could pack Low Cut Blackie and Fun Greenie to compare them in the dreary light of London, but carry-ons are cruel beasts.

I pull a Spanx on, thanking my dear friend Rachael for giving me the best advice ever - buy a Spanx that’s a size too big - it’ll still give you lots of control, without putting you in a bad mood. I wriggle into my sized-up Spanx and the plunge bra that Low-Cut Blackie requires. I zip it up, smile into the mirror and say “Hi!” the way you do at a wedding - half an octave higher than normal, big smile, brows raised, as if you’re surprised there are actually people there.

Low Cut Blackie has never done me wrong and when I wore it to my niece Holly’s wedding I felt like a movie star.

Low-Cut Blackie on too-tan me, with my perfectly beautiful sister.

I waltz out to Philip, who has opted to stay home, which I’m of two minds about. Mind One wants him in London because he loves Emily and Jules, and I love him. Mind Two wants to be a mom on the town with her two kids. Mind Two has won.

“You look good,” he says. I’m about to ask for more specifics, but think, “eh, I have shit to do,” and scoot back to my staging area.

I step into Fun Greenie. Zip it up. Put a hand on my hip and smile. Fun Greenie is festive (hence its name) and unique - I bought it at a vintage shop in Ocean Grove, New Jersey, where a fluffy white dog named Trixie sat on a blue velvet chair in the dressing room and panted her approval.

I’ve only worn FG once - to my nephew Doug’s wedding - and let’s just say, I had a ridiculous amount of fun on a day that kept going until it was night and karaoke was the only thing that made sense.

“Jet” by Paul McCartney & Wings - as not sung by Ava and me. Don’t ask.

On a whim, I slip into a pair of blush booties and they look so good that I point my toe in a self-satisfied manner as I smile at the mirror. I love this dress. And it poses no cleavage issues, which I can’t say for LCB.

I put Low-Cut Blackie on a hanger and wish it better luck next time. Fun Greenie is carefully rolled and tucked into my stingy little suitcase. Ben models his outfit and we decide he’s perfect, as we always do. It’s truly annoying. Ava has known she’ll wear a black slip dress since we got the invitation, because she too, is perfect, and therefore annoying. I manage to love them anyway.

Half a day later, we’re putting our hoods up to shield what’s left of our hairdos from the London mist. By the time we have lunch and check into the airbnb, there’s just time for a quick nap before the pub thing.

Our cute pub outfits are ousted in favor of cozy sweaters because it’s bone-cold and we’re exhausted.

“Let’s say a quick hi and make it an early night,” I say, which makes total sense.

Until it’s way past one and we’re drinking shots of tequila.

And Ava is talking to the cutest British boy we’ve ever seen.

And Ben is laughing so hard with my friend Amanda and her girlfriend Meg that I think he may start crying. And my new best friends Danny and Justin are making me die with the best jokes and gossip I’ve heard in ages.

I almost want this to be the whole wedding because it’s so perfect.

But the most perfect part requires a rewind to when we entered the pub. The first thing we saw was Emily (who I call Topsy because we used to sit facing each other at our advertising agency and only saw one another from the shoulders up.)

Topsy’s face is gorgeous on the worst of days.

And on this, the best of nights, her face is a masterpiece. A masterpiece that gets buried in Ava’s hair as the two of them embrace. And then mine, and then Ben’s, and then everyone’s.

Emily’s smile is drop-dead beautiful. Tonight, it’s better than that. It’s big and loopy and messy with emotion - there’s simply no controlling the tremble of an upper lip that’s part of a face that’s connected to a soul that’s surrounded by love. As we hug and rock back and forth, everything that doesn’t matter floats out the open door of the crowded pub.

We’ve made Topsy happy.

What a gift.

Because Topsy deserves happiness more than most people would guess. And she’s found it in Jules - a woman whose sweetness balances her tartness, and whose brightness softens her jaded edges. Not that Emily’s some sour apple - she isn’t, in the least - but, compared to Jules, we’re all sour apples.

We muddle through a jet-lagged foggy Friday, feeling like we should be at the Tate Modern, but instead, eating scrambled eggs on toast in a charming little restaurant and walking around Chelsea in a daze.

There’s sun on the morning of the wedding - of course there is - the sun wouldn’t dare not shine for Emily and Jules unless it wanted a riot on its hands. Ava - god, I love that girl - has made hair and nail appointments for us.

My hair is whipped into shape and my face is spun into a glowing shimmer. I feel as pretty as Maria, and it’s alarming how charming I feel.

An hour later, Ava, Ben, Fun Greenie and I make our royal entrance.

We’re ushered upstairs where we sit in the nervous way of those awaiting a wedding couple’s entrance.

The doors open. Emily wears an elegant black jumpsuit and Jules, a white one. Perfection. The applause is instant and heartfelt. They’re divine, these two women. They read letters to each other, delivering a masterclass on what it is to love, accept and adore another person, foibles and all.

Tears run rampant over my shimmery glow and I laugh when Emily mentions the way Jules talked like Tony Soprano for a full two weeks after watching the series, and when Jules thanks Emily for teaching her to be fiscally responsible, so she can retire before she’s 93.

Emily’s friend Lauren makes a toast that is so profound, so funny, so beautifully delivered, it should have its own podcast and be spun into a mini-series.

She mentions Emily’s shock upon discovering that Jules owned 15 kinds of shampoo and countless pairs of white sneakers, and says:

While she described all this in horror, my heart jumped for joy. Because yes, we all deserve excesses, who cares? And you will give this to her Jules, you will continue to show her that one more gift, one more hug, just more LOVE - it’s everything. It’s the way to live, and, dear God, if I want anything for my friend, it’s More. More. More.

I hear myself sob loudly and turn to smile at my friend Amanda. I pass my champagne glass and a few minutes later, she passes it back, saving the last sip for me, because Amanda’s a girl’s girl.

Amanda (with her own damned champagne, finally! And her own Greenie!) and me.

My kids are good-looking. And nice. And fun. And available for weddings and Bar Mitzvahs.

We make our way downstairs again, and this time, we dance. Fun Greenie’s only fault is that it’s a bit structured, and therefore, so are my dance moves. I can imagine Low-Cut Blackie singing “who’s sorry now,” but there’s too much joy here for such nonsense.

At the very end, when the Americans have proven they know how to stay until every last bit of alcohol has been consumed, the deejay acknowledges our persistence with the song none of us can resist.

And somehow, as we sway and belt it out, Ben ends up in the middle of the circle. He points at me and Ava on the words, “It’s up to you, New York, New York,” and I cry for what may be the 49th time. My boy is surrounded by love. And he’s reveling in it - as well he should. Confetti pours down and lands in his perfect curls, and Ava and I laugh and cry because we love Ben - and we love Emily and Jules - with all our hearts.

We don’t want it to end.

But our feet can no longer stand to be in their shoes.

And the bartenders are packing up.

Us, during our Purple Period.

The next day, after a very long debrief that starts with scrambled eggs on toast and (as more hungover wedding guests tumble in) becomes a dinner of cocktails and fries, we go back to our flat (as we now call it) and plop suitcases onto beds.

It’s always so much easier to pack for home.

Maybe that’s because we know what to expect when we get there.

Unlike trips abroad, which always throw me.

And then thrill me.

And in this case, fill my heart to bursting.

I roll Fun Greenie into a tidy cylinder with a little pat for a job well done.

I’d wish Emily and Jules all the love in the world.

And I’d wish them joy.

And the shared affection and understanding that comes with age.

But that would be silly.

Because they already have it