Michael Meissner illustration
Here’s how it was: I went in the mall—just the far end, I never go in the middle, you could die in there—and I didn’t even look in Lazarus or whatever you call it now. I went to Coldwater Creek because they have colors that don’t make me look like a dead mouse and styles that don’t turn me into a sausage.
I had to have something to wear to speak at a conference, which, in this instance, would be a crew of 375 kindergarten teachers. They look like what they’re used to is paste and crayon-shavings, but never mind.
Usually I go for elastic waist pants, and I like a jacket that’s loose but not big. Being somewhat squat, if I put on something too loose (“size-free” in label lingo) it looks like a tent fell on me.
However, while riffling through the pants in an enchanting assortment of colors resembling creek rock, I spied this tank dress on a mannequin at the end of the rack.
You can’t wear tank dresses, I told myself. The sausage thing.
But I kept looking at it, even as I lifted a hanger of dust colored pants off the silver rod.
Those are your colors, another part of me said. And the delicious tank dress refused to retreat: amber, bittersweet, russet, gold, that deep chocolate—and the pattern, sort of Paul Klee tribal—I couldn’t stop looking at it.
Of course, I knew that when I put it on, all style would be lost due to my stalwart little 1949 model of a female anatomy, but—look at it this way, I said to myself, if you don’t try it on, you’re never going to find an outfit to wear to the conference. You can’t look at anything else. So get in it and get over it. The only way out is through.
I found the dress in my size and made my way to the dressing room. Three people wanted to help me. A slow day at Coldwater Creek.
When I got in the little yellow booth, what I saw in the mirror looked like a 911 for fashion rescue. I’d forgotten I had on my orange plaid capri pants and my white V-necked T-shirt which had basically no shoulders. Anything would look better than this, I thought, even that gorgeous dress.
I wished for a better bra as I got out of my spandex Target pants. I wished for less spongy fat cushioning the form divine. This is the gift of slips, I thought. They save you from seeing, face to flesh, what you’ve come to.
But never mind.
The dress was a petite medium, which is what I more or less am, depending on the brand and how strong gravity is in on any particular day in the vicinity of the fitting room.
I slipped it over my head, grateful that it didn’t have one of those heavy plastic anti-theft handles snapped to it. They always hit me in the eye going on and then drag whatever I’m wearing down so one breast shows.
Then there was that moment—I know you know it—when the fabric was over my eyes and the veil was about to be lifted, or dropped in this case, on another dream of beauty. Deep breath, continue to shimmy the garment on its way. And then—
Good Lord! It looks good. I mean GOOD. I mean, where did I get this body? This dress knows and likes my body better than I do. It hugs all the right places. It almost looks sleek—well, roundly sleek. It doesn’t cut under the arms creating discomfort now and chafed plumpness later. And the colors—they really are mine. They are having a conversation with my brown hair and eyes, not yelling at them.
And my neck doesn’t look ringed and seedy the way it can without a collar. No wattle. In fact, I almost see a collarbone. Remember those?
Turn around and see how the skirt flows. I could dance in this dress, if I had anybody to dance with. I could give a speech, too. In fact, I will. It is elegant, alluring, not so much bold as nuanced. The perfect look for speaking to kindergarten teachers.
Reader, I bought it.