Pretty in Pink
The VP of Mesh’s company has been visiting from Texas for the last several weeks, and this past Tuesday the expatriated women of EOG gathered together for an afternoon noshing with his wife. While initially I rolled my eyes at the high tea billing for our “Lunch with Linda,” I did plan my outfit in advance (I’m not wearing any f*cking pink), wanting to wear something that balanced my personality against an event more aligned to a wedding shower than a Phish show.
Pushing aside my array of tie dye and jumpsuits, I settled on a flower patterned patchwork-esque dress. Modest with its muted colors, three quarter length sleeves, and a hemline that fell right to my knees, I layered a black tank top beneath to hide any hint of cleavage. Unless in a mosque, women aren’t required to cover their bodies, hair, or faces in the UAE, but I do conceal my shoulders and legs when in less expat populated or touristy zones just to be respectful. I figured our lunch at the Mandarin Oriental fell into the latter, and my exposed kneecaps wouldn’t cause me or anyone else a bit of discomfort over my exposed flesh. Yes, this was the dress to put my pinky up and sip some tea in.
My friend Stacy affirmed my decision upon my arrival at the hotel. “Oh, I love this,” she said, stroking my sleeve.
I loved her embroidered dress too. All twelve of us looked pretty fabulous, in makeup and jewelry and smart casual dresses, several of them pink, for our Tuesday tea, which was held in an open air cafe in the middle of the hotel. Artificial cherry blossom trees lined the perimeter and we were seated in dusty rose colored upholstered chairs. The feminine aesthetics certainly matched the vibe of our gathering and was what had originally caused me to groan over the invite. I’m not a fan of gender roles and I thought a high tea seemed so obviously girly, but one of the biggest things I’m learning since moving to Abu Dhabi is I need to stop judging things so quickly. (Something I’ve been attempting to do for years. Maybe I’ll finally be successful with it.)
Our high tea lunch with Linda turned out to be a really a fantastic time. We EOG expats meet regularly and I have loved and will continue to love spending time with these women, many of them people I wouldn’t have befriended if looking from surface level. (What another great lesson in book cover judging.) We exchanged stories and laughed and didn’t drink a drop of tea, though my flat white followed by a few glasses of a crisp prosecco was delicious.
The party broke up mid afternoon with most of the moms needing to get going for school pick up. I also had an errand to attend to. I’m in the last steps of getting my visa and Emirates ID and my fingerprints are required. The task would be quick, and the government building where biometrics are captured was only a 15 minute drive from my downtown location instead of the 35 from our new flat. I’d purposely combined the two activities for efficiency’s sake, because along with disliking gender roles, I hate wasting my time.
I popped into the female side (oh the irony, various offices are divided by sex) of the Federal Authority for Identity, Citizenship, Customs, and Port Security and was greeted by a Muslim woman manning the desk.
“Hello, I’m here to get fingerprinted for my via,” I told her, digging in my bag for my passport.
“Can I have your paperwork?” She stood up and looked at me. “Oh, I think your dress is too short.”
“Oh no, really?” I stood straight up and held my arms at my sides, exactly as I’d done in Catholic school to show teachers that my uniform met the required length. Unfortunately, this dress, longer than the plaid skirt I wore in middle school, exposed a bit of knee. Goddammit.
“Yes. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come back. Thanks for understanding.” She sounded sympathetic and I felt like a fool. Why hadn’t I thought about this final stop when planning my outfit. A government building, like a mosque, certainly ranked as a setting requiring women to cover all body parts.
I walked out with my head down. If I had a tail, it would have been tucked between my legs. Oof, another lesson learned, one, like so many others, that I should have known better. At least this particular educating wouldn’t require regular practice to show what I learned. Climbing into my Uber, I cursed myself at the time wasted, arranging my schedule in my head to accommodate another trip here ASAP.
Luckily, my Thursday morning was mailable. I told Huey he would have an evening walk instead of a morning one and readied myself for another attempt at biometrics. Here was another outing I needed to think about my outfit for. Should I go long dress? Pants? Pants covered my ankles and I wasn’t taking any chanced with having to do this a third time. Opposite from Tuesday, I covered myself in casual, throwing on a pair of loose loungey bottoms and a tee shirt (pink and tie dyed! HA), adding a white linen button down JUST IN CASE.
Instead of being turned away, I was greeted warmly at the counter by both the guard and the receptionist and received a large smile from the woman who took control of my hands for a few minutes. We laughed together as I awkwardly allowed her to roll my fingers and hands across a digital screen. The process took less than five minutes, and I was out and in my front door in under 90 minutes. So, really, not too much time spent and all for the good cause of becoming a legal resident of my new country. A place where I may not agree with everything, but will abide by its laws and customs as any good visitor should.
My original intentions with this blog post was to tell a ridiculous story about my stupidity in wearing that dress to get my fingerprints. ‘Doh! But, like so many other writers, I discovered what this was really about as I wrote it. The ability to choose. This particular piece focuses on clothing, which, living in this part of the world, the freedom to choose what you wear (among other things) isn’t always reigning. But I am learning to appreciate instead of judge what people, all people, clothe themselves in when that power of choice is available. I may not cover myself in head to toe pink, but if someone feels their best in doing so (“Hello, Barbie”) who am I to judge. The real beauty lies in your ability to live your life the way you want to. I promise not to roll my eyes at the next high tea I’m invited to, and maybe I’ll even throw on some pink. Will I cover my shoulders and knees? I guess that all depends on what I’m doing after.
