What occasioned my foray into the rarefied confines of this social stratum was the Bulgari Red Cross Ball held Saturday before last. I had agreed to go with my friend (who had a whole table to fill up with warm bodies) without realizing that it was–according to the society columns–the social event of the year, the grandest of all grand balls, with designers releasing to media sketches of gowns being made for so-and-so to wear to the ball.
Ball. Gown. Red. When used together, these three words do not figure in my vocabulary; certainly not in my wardrobe. Too late did it dawn on me that one is supposed to have a gown specially made for the ball; absent a fairy godmother like Cinderella had who could apport a gown with a wave of her wand, I had to make do with the fine art of rummaging through my cabinet for something to wear.
The fashion parade was eye-popping, but I will leave it to more able fashionistas to give thumbs up or thumbs down ratings to the gowns. Red was, of course, the color of the night, especially for the women who danced the rigodon de honor. There was a smattering of women in black. A few attempted to bag their own Best Actress award by going the way of Ara Mina’s rear-plunging gown; one apparently had second thoughts and attached a sheer flesh colored material on the plunge. I wonder how these women, together with those in bustiers and spaghettini-strap tops, survived the freezing air conditioning system of the Shangri-la ballroom without getting pulmonia.
I was also told by an officemate–who thought my going to the ball was great sport–that I was supposed to glitter with the best of them. Suffice to say that my scintillating personality and dazzling smile provided all the glitter I needed. As for everyone else, the ladies of Manila did not disappoint. We could easily have paid for the entire modernization program of our Armed Forces with the rocks–some of them boulders–on display that evening. Diamonds proved once again to be a socialite’s best friends, but rubies were the rocks of choice that evening, it being the Red Cross ball.
Hardly anyone goes to such an affair for the food, of course, but I was delighted with the menu. Smoked duck breast, mushroom cappuccino (with morel dust, which prompted my seatmate to declare in mock horror, "Hindi ako pumunta rito para kumain ng alikabok!"), grilled tenderloin, cheesecake (strawberry, naturally, in keeping with the color theme).
The ball–a smashing success–raised tons of money for the Philippine National Red Cross, since Bulgari footed the bill so all proceeds go to Red Cross coffers. The ball was the third and final (for the year) fund-raiser for the Red Cross, there having been two previous dinner affairs (a Jose Llana concert and a Ramon Valera retrospective), all chaired by the indefatigable Nedy Tantoco, who finally agreed to give a speech (she had someone read her speech the last time) and who, from the way she was going around greeting everyone, must have known about 95 percent of the people present.
All in all, I’m pleased as punch about having gone to the ball. I won one of the raffle prizes, a mother-and-child print by the late National Artist Jose Joya (a good ROI for what I paid for my ticket). I ran into some friends I hadn’t seen for ages, and picked up pounds of chismis. I don’t think though that I have the energy (certainly not the wardrobe and the jewelry!) to do this again any time soon. I came out of that experience with new-found admiration for socialites and matrons who ball. It really is hard work!