The phone rang, Lauren anxiously twirled her golden strands in her fingertips. Her mother answered, Lauren apologized profusely. Her mother feigned disappointment, as she secretly plotted the arrangement of tables atop the Santa Monica sand.
As the sky hovering atop the lifeguard stands melted into a cosmic sherbert sundae, the guests arrived one by one, in the finest whites, Jimmy Choo heels, whipped cream linens and patent leather caramels. I stood aside, grateful to be wearing white , and for a moment pretended I was one of the guests who happened to don the coolest camera in the crowd. Boy was I going to show up THAT photographer...oh wait...I WAS the photographer...and my fantasy ended...
The DJ stirred the crowd into a silent frenzy, whispering into the mic that the birthday girl had arrived. As Lauren crept around the corner, huddled by her girlfriends, the energy of the awaiting surprise pursed the lips of the entrance, the guests exploded with delight at the ruse, the coup of fabulous deceit raining delight on their guest of honor. The evening was a success. The White Party was indeed the hottest party of the night, and it was Lauren's, to hold and remember forever. Her parents stood proudly as all danced under winking eyelets in the sky, and into an evening of fire-pits and s'mores. Life was good.
[gallery link="file" orderby="ID"]
