He was resplendent. He was dressed from tiara to toe in white, accented by a platinum wig and silver sparkles. His floor length tulle skirt floated as he spun. His tight bodice bedecked with ribbons highlighted his slender torso. We oohed and aahed from afar. “He was here last year.” “What a beautiful fairy.” “No, he’s the Snow Queen.”

We were at The Dance-Along Nutcracker, a spectacular celebration where children and adults alike can don their best tutus and pirouette to Tschaikovsky’s familiar holiday tunes.

After two hours of dancing and leaping and twirling, I scurried across Yerba Buena Gardens to pick up a couple of quick holiday gifts. As I was leaving the Metreon, I found myself behind a white haired lady in a navy suit and matching pumps, her fat ankles opaqued by thick, supposedly nude hose. She was treating her six-year old granddaughter to a holiday excursion in the city.

“Look, dear, a bride,” she said in her frail, cracking voice. The little one swung her head this way and that, not seeing.

“Over there, dear, see? Aren’t weddings just wonderful? Look how pretty the bride is.”

I followed her gaze. There, in all his beauty, walked the Snow Queen with his tuxedoed King.