**Diary Entry: The Orange Robe Incident**
When I walked into the restaurant in my bright orange bathrobe and fluffy pink pom-pom slippers, the waiters eye twitched as if he couldnt decide whether I was a prankster or a madwoman. I simply smiled and said, “Take me to the table reserved for David Thompson, please. Its his fiftieth birthday.”
Poor chap led me through the dining hall, and I could feel every pair of eyes burning into me. You know that walk where your footsteps echo like youre the main character in a comedy? My slippers slapped against the hardwood, the robe billowed dramatically, and the pom-poms bounced with every step.
But lets start from the beginning.
This morning, Davids big day, I woke up at seven as usual and ran through my checklist: hairdresser at ten, manicure at one, pick up the cake, then arrive at the restaurant by four to check the setup. David was still sprawled across the bed like a teenager, snoring away. Fifty years old, yet he wakes up like a grumpy uni student.
The kettle hadnt even boiled when the phone rangMargaret, my mother-in-law. Eight in the morning. Shes punctual, but this was a new level of early.
“Charlotte, darling,” she cooed, overly sweet. “Did I wake you?”
“No, Margaret, Im up. Getting ready for the party.”
“Ah, yes. About that I have a small delicate request.”
My guard went up. When Margaret says “delicate request,” brace for trouble. Fourteen years of marriage have taught me that much.
“What is it?”
“Well, you know how important today is for David. A milestone. All the attention should be on him.”
A pause. That familiar, creeping dread.
“So I was thinking perhaps you could not steal the spotlight? Let my son be the star of his own party.”
I nearly choked on my tea.
“Pardon? Not steal the spotlight?”
She cleared her throat. “You knowskip the flashy dresses, dont argue, dont interrupt. Just let everyone admire David.”
I let the words sink in. She wanted me to become a background extra at my own husbands celebration.
“Margaret,” I said coolly, “are you asking me to show up in my dressing gown?”
“Now, dont be dramatic,” she chuckled. “Though, if you did it with humour, why not?”
By nine, David finally stirred, yawning loud enough to rattle the windows.
“Charlotte, where are my socks?” he mumbled, eyes still shut.
“Probably with your lost youth,” I muttered.
No responsetypical. Men at fifty revert to teenage forgetfulness.
As he rummaged through the wardrobe, Margarets words gnawed at me. *Dont stand out?* Im the hostess!
At the hairdressers, the stylist asked, “What are we doing today?”
“Something invisible,” I sighed.
“Sorry?”
“Make me blend into the air. Let David shine.”
She gave me a neat, understated blowout. At the manicure, inspiration struck: what if I took Margarets request *literally*?
By the time I got home, David was preening in his new suithandsome as ever. “So, what are you wearing?” he asked.
“Oh, dont worry. Ive got something special.”
I pulled out my neon-orange robe and pom-pom slippers. The ensemble was so absurd, it was perfect. If I couldnt *stand out*, Id do the oppositespectacularly.
At the restaurant, the waiter nearly dropped his tray. Guests whispered. Margaret sat stiffly in her royal-blue dress, looking like shed bitten into a lemon.
“Charlotte!” she hissed. “What on earth are you doing?!”
“Following your advice,” I chirped. “See? All eyes are on David.”
The room erupted in laughter. David flushed but grinned.
Later, after cake and toasts (including one where I climbed onto a chair to blow out his candles), David pulled me close. “Youre mad,” he whispered. “But thats why I love you.”
Margaret, defeated, even managed a tight-lipped smile.
A week later, the photos went viral. The ones of me in that ridiculous robe got the most likes. Now, whenever someone says, “Dont steal the spotlight,” the whole family laughs.
Sometimes, the best way to shine is to wear an orange bathrobe.
