Depending on my mood, I promised you a series of posts that would celebrate or lament my upcoming milestone birthday at the end of the year. In typical Dawn fashion, I have found dozens of things far more essential to occupy my time and writing has become an afterthought. And while surfing the intertoobs for comfortable socks was a massive priority during those many months of lockdown, reconnecting with friends and family has taken precedence over fiddling around in this space or any space online. There are people to see, places to go, and celebrations to attend. We do so with great caution, masks, and lots of testing, but off we go. This brings me to how lovely it has been to see all of the happy pictures on social media over the last few days. Photos of newly minted graduates, happy couples celebrating engagements, weddings, new digs, and brand new babies have filled my timelines. It is a happy reversal from the usual doomscrolling, and with the improved weather, my disposition has definitely shifted. To facilitate my reemergence into the land of human interaction, I was in desperate need of some new clothes.
I can't possibly be the only person on earth who spent significant chunks of the pandemic clad in yoga pants, sweatshirts, and Crocs? It was almost as if my lifelong fashion choices had been validated by seven billion people. Every few weeks, I would slip on a pair of jeans to make sure that they still fit, but comfort was definitely the watchword of the lockdown. And now I find myself in a crisis of conscience. What does an almost sexagenarian wear to a wedding these days?
An aside. How great is that word? Sexagenarian. I am all a flutter at its provocativeness. I realize that its roots have absolutely nothing to do with erotica, but I very much like the idea of a sexy sixty.
Where was I? Ah yes...clothing.
I have never enjoyed clothes shopping. It is the furthest thing from a passion, and I have always been far more about functionality and comfort than style. Also, I loathe trying on clothes at a store with the fiery passion of the seventh circle of hell. One simply hasn't lived a full and complete life until one has had a salesperson remark on the size of one's breasts or the glaring lack of one's butt. These are encounters that have been imprinted on my psyche, and a lifetime of positive affirmation statements won't diminish them. In addition, trying on clothes that countless others have already squeezed themselves into seems unsanitary right now, but accepting social invitations means dressing in something more than a tank top and workout bra. Knowing that several weddings and functions were coming up this spring gave me the "dry heaves" when figuring out an outfit for my figure. So, I did the unthinkable.
I surfed the intertoob waves.
I can hear the screams of derision coming through the screen.
Yes, I shopped online for a dress for my nephew's and almost niece's wedding. And, here's the kicker.
I WAS SUCCESSFUL!!
I am as stunned as you must be. It isn't like I'm an easy fit. The options don't exactly overflow when you are under five feet tall, have short legs, a long waist, and big boobs. Standard sizing has been one of the banes of my existence. But, I was running low on options. Omicron was everywhere, and I was extraordinarily uncomfortable venturing into a store. I don't sew. (The Mother of the Groom/aka The Yin to the Lil' Bro's Yang, is the artsy one in the family, and she is making her dress. I have no doubt it will be of Vera Wang quality.) So, I was left with the intertoobs or sackcloth and ashes.
In February, I was in the Southern Home and was taking a cursory peek at some online dress shops. I was looking more for the style than an actual dress. I was stunned to find a shop that carried a variety of appropriate petite outfits that 1) didn't make me look like a dowager, 2) had a variety of colour palettes, 3) were made of fabrics that were both easy to keep and very forgivable in all the right places, and 4) wouldn't make me feel as though I was mortgaging my grandchildren's future education. I closed the computer and said no. This can't be possible. But, Jeff Bezos and internet cookies changed my mind.
The site followed me around the web to Amazon. It seems as though this shop also has an Amazon shop that carries the same merchandise. They were willing to ship the dress via Amazon Prime with a one hundred percent refundable return policy. And on Amazon, it was thirty percent cheaper. I hovered over the keyboard for a while before hitting send. I figured that I would simply return it when it came and was wholly unsuitable.
The next evening, the dress arrived at my door. The Husband was incredulous.
"You know you'll hate it, don't you?" he said. (Everybody needs a supportive partner.)
I went into the bedroom, slipped off my sweats, and tugged on the dress. When I tell you that it fits as though it were made to measure, I am not exaggerating. It doesn't require hemming; it covers my problematic body areas; it's comfortable; I can wear a regular bra, and it has a bit of bling on the hip. I walked into the other room to show The Husband, and his reply was,
"How did you do that?" (SUPPORTIVE!)
Still totally flabbergasted, I made my way to my mom's to show her. I was confident that she would have some concerns because moms are trained to see the big picture.
She stood stunned, and her only question was, "Do you have shoes?"
I DO!
The dress is now hanging in my closet, awaiting the chuppah this weekend and two other functions later this spring.
A lifetime of shopping trauma had led to this moment. It was the most accessible and least miserable retail experience in my almost sixty years.
There is a moral to this story. Clothing can look great and be comfortable. There are ways to dress without torture and expense, and we women shouldn't have to wait until we are sixty to figure it out. So, fuck standard sizing, fuck hating our bodies, fuck overpaying for an outfit you will only wear once, and fuck others telling you what is fashionable.
Here's the dress. I promise to post a photo of me in it after the weekend.
