- BC Games
The Parent Trip-Sparkle party
By Shelby Cain
I don’t get out much.
So when my friend invited me to a Sparkle Party, I thought, why not? I hadn’t worn anything from a hanger in a long time, and I had a beautiful shimmery dress with the tag still dangling from the neckline.
The day of the party I was talking to some moms at the gym. When I asked if I would see them at the Sparkle Party that night they all got funny looks on their faces. “Ummm… no. Are you sure you want to go to that? You might be a little… old.”
Ouch. That hurt. Yes, I’m a mom now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t wear a pretty dress and go dancing, does it? That night I distracted the kids so I could curl my hair and put on my dress. I even got out the little bag from under the sink with the special make-up and put on some silver eye shadow. Crazy.
I headed over to my friends house. There were four of us going and we’d decided to have a drink and then go to the party together. When the door swung open my friend greeted me with a huge smile, followed by a look of confusion. “Oh. You look… pretty.” Her words dripped with disappointment. Uh oh. Was I not sparkly enough?
She was shrouded in head to toe gold sparkles that would’ve made a figure skater shudder. “Have you been to a Sparkle Party before?” She led me into her living room, which looked like Cher’s dressing room. Dresses and skirts and boas and headbands. Crazy wigs and beads. “Feel free to… try something on.” Wow. She googled German Sparkle Party and played the video. Holy crap. If you, too, are unfamiliar with this video, watch it. Then you will know the depths of my fall down the rabbit hole.
An hour later I walked out of the house, unrecognizable. My curled hair was tucked beneath a fluorescent blue mullet wig. My beautiful dress was replaced with a tacky black and gold strapless one that spent half the night threatening to plunge to my waist. When we got to the party people clad in thigh high boots, orange underwear and push-up bras hoola-hooped on a stage. Oh, and these were the men. I was constantly hit with wings and unicorn heads on sticks. Just an ordinary day for a mother of two girls.
The concentration of sparkles in the air outnumbered oxygen molecules. The music was fantastic. Early nineties. Later that night, as I did the Roger Rabbit while clutching my dress and singing every word of Ice Ice Baby, the youngsters shuffling cluelessly around me, I realized I was NOT too old. I was just right.