<http://schema.org/articleBody>
"  It may have been the first state banquet at Buckingham Palace for our president and first lady, but the first state I was in was panic. My excitement that my husband and I had been invited to join the leader of the free world and his wife at this historic event gave way to something else entirely when the very strict protocol for attire arrived (with only days to plan). White tie and tails for the men. Very formal attire for the women. To me, this was equivalent to finding a perfect wedding gown in two days. And, oh yeah, you&amp;#039;ll be meeting the queen of England. No pressure. The palace dress requirements say that women&amp;#039;s gowns must be &amp;quot;structured.&amp;quot; Huh? The bodice must have some sort of foundation in it, and the skirt must be full. Belle in Beauty and the Beast immediately comes to mind. Women must wear closed-toed shoes \u2014 and get this: stockings! Sheer disbelief \u2014 I don&amp;#039;t even own a pair of sheer hose.  Who is inspecting what&amp;#039;s on under all those layers anyway? I knew the head of Britain&amp;#039;s Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, would be attending, so I wasn&amp;#039;t taking any chances that my unstockinged legs would be called out. I could just imagine being introduced to the queen: &amp;quot;Ms. Rita Wilson. Not wearing hose.&amp;quot;  Then there are the gloves. If your gown is strapless, then over-the-elbow 12- to 18-button gloves are typical. If your gown has a sleeve, then a glove to the elbow is acceptable. (Ladies, do you know how hard it is to find white kid gloves anywhere in 2011? A European friend found mine in Italy.) At the palace, hair is usually worn up but not required to be. The way they say it, though, makes you think that if you don&amp;#039;t, you might be sent to the tower.  Thankfully, my dress arrived, and it was perfect. A Monique Lhuillier, it had sheer sleeves with sequins, a structured bodice, and a long, full tulle skirt. It had a slightly high waist, but I had a quick alteration done to lower it. (I am making this sound like it happened effortlessly. It didn&amp;#039;t. There were probably 25 gowns I tried on in a cold sweat as Big Ben was ticking.) Because men also have to follow royal protocol for attire, my husband called Tom Ford. White tie and tails were put immediately into the works. The vest of the man&amp;#039;s ensemble has to be a certain length. It cannot be too long or too short. (There&amp;#039;s also a certain shoe and a certain cuff length.) After tracking down gloves, closed-toed shoes, stockings, matching purse, a tie, and tails, we had entered a new state: Keep calm. Carry on. On to the airport, that is.  --&amp;amp;gt;. Entering through the gates of Buckingham Palace is surreal. After ascending a massive stairway, we are greeted by one of the queen&amp;#039;s ladies-in-waiting, who is wearing a tiara and directs us to cocktails in the spectacular gallery that hosted the recent reception for the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge&amp;#039;s wedding. Another of the queen&amp;#039;s ladies begins a conversation with me. Charming and fun, she tells me she&amp;#039;d been wondering if my gown had been spray painted on. The tulle is so sheer that the way the sequins are sewn on is imperceptible. This lady was wearing a tiara and a gorgeous diamond brooch in a scrolled letter E that was given to her by the queen.  After cocktails, we are presented to the queen, the president, the first lady, and Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, in that order. There is a card with your name presented to an official who announces your arrival \u2014 just like in the movies. I&amp;#039;m in a state of relief that I wore hose, but he doesn&amp;#039;t look at my legs at all. Still, I know the head of MI6 is somewhere, so I am almost compelled to lift my skirt and shout, &amp;quot;Donna Karan! Donna Karan! Nude to waist!&amp;quot;  You are not supposed to touch the queen, as our affectionate first lady found out on her last visit, unless she touches you first. You are also not allowed to speak to the royals unless they speak to you first. Suddenly, we are announced and we are in front of the queen, with our tall, elegant president looking on. We pause. I am thankful for waiting to be spoken to first because I&amp;#039;m rendered speechless by the queen&amp;#039;s blinding bling. If she could have had more jewels on, I don&amp;#039;t know where. She had on a diamond tiara, diamond earrings, a diamond necklace, and a sash pinned with diamond brooches. You know that thing Coco Chanel said about always removing one piece of jewelry before you leave the house? Not in England! &amp;quot;Keep calm, bring it on&amp;quot; is more like it. I hear the queen has her own jewelry closet. I can see why. She extends her hand, smiles, and says hello. We have been told that the correct way to address her is &amp;quot;Your Majesty&amp;quot; for the first greeting and &amp;quot;ma&amp;#039;am&amp;quot; thereafter. Even though Americans are not required to curtsy, I find myself giving a little bent knee. I have done Shakespeare, and at this moment I feel as if I&amp;#039;m a character in an Elizabethan play. As I move down the receiving line, the president reaches out and kisses me on the cheek. He looks handsome and smiles warmly. What an honor it is to be here at this historic moment: our first African-American president, elected by the people, with Queen Elizabeth II, born to reign. I thank him for inviting us as I move down to greet Mrs. Obama with a kiss on both cheeks. She is breathtaking in luminous Tom Ford white silk georgette. Next is the Duke of Edinburgh. He shakes my hand and says hello. Mrs. Obama turns to greet Tom, and I am left alone with the duke. There is a lull as Tom and Mrs. Obama talk, so I decide to chat: &amp;quot;Your Royal Highness, I believe you and I have some shared heritage. I am half Greek.&amp;quot; He replies, &amp;quot;I am sorry for you.&amp;quot; State of fear. What have I said? I read that he had Greek roots from way back. How could I make such a stupid mistake? Damn the Internet! The duke tells me it isn&amp;#039;t true; he has no Greek roots at all. If you could tap-dance for survival in Louboutins, I was mentally doing it. We proceed to the ballroom for dinner, and I wonder if the red carpet matches my face.  My darling husband distracts me by looking at the seating chart. We are not seated together. The thinking is that you see your spouse all the time, so why would you want to sit next to him or her? So I find my seat with a place setting of gold dishes. Gold. Real gold. The flowers are insanely gorgeous and huge. On my left is former prime minister Gordon Brown. And on my right, a dashing Brit who looks like Roger Moore as James Bond, 007. After processions, toasts, and national anthems, the dinner begins. A much-needed glass of wine is served. I take a moment to think, Well, I made it. No one checked my shoes or my hose, and aside from the duke&amp;#039;s comment, which I now choose to believe was his own unique brand of humor, I&amp;#039;m all good. My dinner partner on the right starts chatting. I don&amp;#039;t recognize his name, Sir John Sawers. Ooh! A knight! A knight in shining tails! He asks about what I do. Now, I have sat next to many a man who is more than likely to talk solely about himself, but Sir John is so interested, so curious. Shifting the conversation, I ask him what he does.  As I smile charmingly, imperceptibly adjust my panty hose, and accidentally kick one of the shoes I have removed during the dinner, he smiles and replies, &amp;quot;Oh, I&amp;#039;m the head of MI6.&amp;quot; "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.harpersbazaar.com/culture/features/a740/rita-wilson-buckingham-palace-dinner/>