It was impossible to sit home with all of DC (and most of the Lower 48, it seemed) out and about on Tuesday night to celebrate the inauguration of the 44th president. Four years ago, when I moved to Washington just after the 2004 election and first heard that the public could attend inaugural balls, I decided then and there to fanangle my way into one at some point in my Washington career. So, when tickets to the Pennsylvania State Society Inaugural Gala went on sale this year, I was ready with check in hand to make aspiration a reality.

With tickets and date secured, my next step was to indulge in some primping and preening. Borrowing some wisdom from Steel Magnolias, “There is no such thing as natural beauty,” I accordingly – somewhat out of character – jumped into an estrogen cloud and tanned, waxed, exfoliated, and got freshly outfitted with a dress, new makeup, and impossible heels. And then I was at last ready to make my grand entrance (via metro) to the Ritz Carlton.

In spite of the preparation, I went into the event with no other agenda than letting the evening unfold as it may. And unfold it did, in some truly unexpected ways. Sharon Stone’s rambling welcome speech, for one. The sudden disappearance of the dinner buffet, leaving my date and I pretty much dependent on creme brulee and alcohol for our caloric intake that evening. Stepping out of a cab at 1am and seeing the Capitol Building silhouetted against a clear night sky, and still, after all these years in the city, having a breathtaking moment.

We wavered between the trivial and the disarmingly substantial. Chatting over our plateful of dessert, we veered into the territory of past relationships and from there, into the shaky ground of breakups. Turning to me, he said,

“And then you start to wonder about yourself, and wonder why you’re not married.”

To hear this from a man – a funny, attractive man with a JD and an MBA – was enough to put the moment in freezeframe. It was an unexpected moment of candor in an evening given, in part, to celebrating the cache of just showing up and projecting an aura of unruffled success. And I had to wonder, “Are the sexes really that different after all?”

After making a commiserating reply warning of the dangers of such slippery slope thinking, we moved on to happier things, like champagne and mini-cheeseburgers. And then, not content to let the evening end at midnight when the gala was officially over, we cajoled a taxi driver into taking us to Capitol Hill, where the festivities continued in somewhat less opulent surroundings, where I was only too happy to down a pint of Yuengling in a ballgown.

The evening, as it turned out, wasn’t any one thing. It was making an appearance. It was getting past appearances. It was black tie. It was a dive bar. It was as complex as Washington, and just as hard to pin down.