Cotillion Etiquette
I looked down. My ankles were crossed; my gloved hands rested lightly in my lap; I hadn’t spilled a drop of our 10-minute-break Sprite on my tea-length dress. Why, then, was my instructor gliding briskly towards me, her perfectly lipstick-ed lips pursed grimly in my direction? She fanned the trifold cotillion pamphlet under my nose, the glossy forest green type leaping off the cream cardstock. “No. Black. Tights,” she declared....