Poor, poor you. Such a shame for you. Such a soul-wrenching dilemma it is, having to worry yourself silly about changing costumes according to where dinner is served.
Everyone deserves dinner, of course, but not everyone is fortunate enough to get it. Why don’t you chew on this instead of gnawing a hole in your sterling-lined stomach: Be grateful that you get dinner at all, let alone a dinner so fancy that it requires you to wear an expensive costume. Sob on the shoulder of the hungry man with the haunted eyes huddled in the alleyway, swathed in rags you wouldn’t even deign to have your maid swish around inside your toilet. He’d gladly trade places with you. Snivel to the sleep-deprived single mom, who, despite two jobs and going without new clothes herself, can barely afford to set food before her kids, let alone shoes on their feet. Even try trotting out your complaints to someone whose straits are not quite so dire, who works an ordinary 40-hour work week, whose dinner consists of a Lean Cuisine worn while wearing yoga pants and a tank top.
If you don’t like it, there’s always this little thing called standing up for yourself. Get your coddled candy-ass out of the overstuffed antique chair that cost more than most people spend on an entire houseful of furniture, stand up in your shoes whose price could pay someone else’s monthly rent, and say, in a modulated voice with perfect diction, “Fuck you, Mummy and Daddy. I’m having dinner in a grubby Chinatown joint, while wearing Old Navy cargo pants and a tank top, and you can’t stop me.” But until such time, please, please, please, take your fine whine elsewhere.