Last year, Fauxhawk and I were invited to a tiny wedding in Breckenridge, Colorado. The bride (former model) and the groom (stylish and domesticated) declared the dress code "mountain casual."
When Fauxhawk told me about the preferred attire, the conversation went something like this:
P: (Overreacting) What the fuck is mountain casual? I live in New York! I don't do casual!
F: I have no fucking idea.
P: Fuck! What the fuck?
F: Whatever. Just bring a bathing suit. They have a hot tub.
P: (Pacing) Are you fucking kidding me? A hot tub? With a bunch of models in Mountain Casual bikinis? You have just described my worst nightmare.
F: Honey, it's going to be fine.
P: (Curled into fetal position) No, it's not! It's not going to be fine! Because I don't know what Mountain Casual means and I have to be in a bathing suit at the height of the Uglies!
F: I heard one of the guests has fake tits.
P: Oh my God! Is this supposed to make me feel better?
F: I'm just saying, they might be a little cheesy.
P: I AM FAT AND FLAT CHESTED AND I AM NOT GOING. YOU CAN'T MAKE ME.
F: Sweetie, really...please...can you stop that? Can you please stop rocking back and forth and moaning? It's going to be fine.
And of course it was. It was lovely. Especially since I bought a new wardrobe, brought it with me, and was the only person dressed in Mountain Casual.
Divine retribution for being such a brat.
Photo from here with thanks.