I have to go to a wedding. The groom is almost 30, but I remember changing his diapers so, to me, he is a boy. My best friend’s son, my son’s best friend, he is sort of mine and I will always see the giggling, gleeful imp first.

Now, however, he is a very successful, hard-charging international businessman, whatever that means. His own mother doesn’t even understand it — an Ivy degree and a fluency in Chinese has made him marketable in a big bad new world that has somehow left us behind.

And so the wedding will be an upscale, sophisticated affair in the city — yes, The City. We live in upstate New York, so there’s only one. Semi-formal, swanky, full of young, successful movers and shakers — in short, this charming little boy is forcing me to dress for an alien world and I have no idea how to do it.

When I was young, cute and capable of some sparkle, I played city. It was easy in those days to slip into something fine and gracefully slide in and out of clubs, dinner parties, restaurants. I could play the sophisticate when it was called for and it was fun.

But now, I’ve been firmly rooted in country for decades and I love it. I don’t wear make-up, don’t shave. Comfort, relative cleanliness — these are the only requirements. I don’t care about sparkle. Everything I own is laced with animal hair and, while I’m happy to have a cocktail, I like it with plaid, mucks and elastic waistbands. When I look in the mirror, I’m happy and comfortable with the person staring back, but I’m not sure how to get her ready for this visit to the other side.

Is it acceptable at 51 to wear a ponytail to a semi-formal wedding? Do I have to shave? Will the new pad I have to wear in my shoes (‘cookies’ as my grandmother called them — yes, I wear cookies now, it’s come to that) fit in my only pair of flats? Are flats okay? Is my plain, sun-kissed, somewhat wrinkled and freckled face appropriate or do I need to paint it somehow? And what does that even look like?

I used to relish opportunities like this. A chance to dress up, sashay around, feel elegant and awesome. A few months ago I thought, this will be great. I’ll lose a few pounds, find the dress, the hair will somehow arrange itself gloriously and I’ll stun the crowd (which will include old friends and my husband’s ex-wife. Yikes).

It’s the reunion disease: if they could only see me now. But it’s a week away and I’m still the same. Wherever you go, there you are.

And I’m realizing, maybe for the first time in my life, that it’s all good. I don’t want to play anyone else for any reason at all. I want my comfortable shoes, my ponytail — I feel like a clown when I paint my face and I refuse to push my breasts up to my chin. It was a kick back then, but I’m finally ready to relinquish pretend elegant, false sparkle in favor of just being myself. I’ll tramp around Manhattan in my cookies, cry at the ceremony, grab a cocktail and squeeze my sweet little impish boy on his big day. Damn the torpedoes.

What a relief.

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