Black tie. Oh @#%^.

I re-read the invitation at work, just to check the directions. Embassy events are tricky that way. When I'd gotten the outfit ready that morning, I had prepared for a nationality of the funky Ikea variety - as opposed to, say, fancy France or Dubai, in which case Granna's mink would be drug from the closet.

I had thought I'd be safe with a non-cocktail dress I could wear to work with a sweater and boots, then dress up later with jewelry, heels and a corset belt.

As with many circumstances during my time in Washington, was I off, fashion-wise.

And thanks to the rain and two hours sitting in the car on Wisconsin Avenue (why I usually prefer the metro), I had no time to duck home to upgrade.

My skin was dry and flaky. My hair was a staticky mess. Though my dress was a flattering DVF wrap style, the H&M material had more petrochemicals in it than the soil of Azerbaijan. This was made glaringly obvious by the posh spangles, silks and satin that surrounded me. Were the expressions that surrounded me disdain or botox?

In such a situation, all one can do is suck in one's stomach, take a final glance in the mirror and forget about it.

Because once you arrive at a party, it's not about you and what you look like. It's about accepting your hosts' hospitality, putting your neuroses aside and having a good time.

And that's how the evening went. Ikea-genre countries know how to have a good time.