This Party is for Eleza

The year: 1995, the weekend before I started 7th grade at my new school.

The event: Eleza’s Bat Mitzvah.

The invitation to the party, featuring Total Entertainment and an MTV VJ, implied that festive formal attire would be best. Since the last time I had dressed to impress was for my 6th grade graduation just a few short months earlier, I went with that look: a white dress with a lace-trimmed collar, puffed sleeves, and white sash, paired with white tights and white patent leather Mary Janes. I felt classy and confident, excited to reconnect with old friends and rock that first impression on my new ones.

Imagine my surprise when I showed up at the Hotel Nikko and discovered that, over the summer, all of my former classmates had found spaghetti straps, Steve Madden platforms, puberty, and eyeliner. They blended right in with our new 7th-grade classmates, who looked like they had just stepped out of a Vegas nightclub.

I was MORTIFIED. I wanted to spend the evening hiding in the hotel bathroom, but instead, I lurked in the corner of the ballroom, eating chicken fingers from the buffet. Inevitably, I couldn’t resist hitting the dance floor when that bass started thumping. I was mesmerized by the hora. And when the VJ did a call and response—“This party’s for Eleza!”—I was on the front row, raising the roof and screaming, “This party’s for Eleza! This is Club Eleza!” at the top of my lungs. Sure, I looked like a Victorian ghost, but I did the Tootsie Roll like a backup dancer in a 90s rap video. I was the Amish child bride who knew every word of Shoop.

When my parents picked me up, I was livid that they let me leave the house looking like a Little Bo Peep pilgrim.  They were just as shocked as I was that the dress code had swung so drastically in the other direction. I placed an order from the dELiA*s catalog the next day.

Flash forward a few decades, and here I am, helping my daughter get dressed for her first Bat Mitzvah party. I refuse to let her repeat my past trauma, so we’ve ordered a stack of slinky, skanky dresses for her to choose from. I am well aware I am overcorrecting. Modesty schmodisty.

An eensy-weensy sparkly maroon dress was her top pick.  I made her shout “This Party’s for Eleza” to make sure she and the dress could rise to meet the moment.

Post-Party update: She came home hoarse from winning the screaming contest, which came with a Starbucks gift card. She also had a few bruises from doing the worm.  Couldn’t be prouder. 

Mazel tov!