The Dress

A good friend who is a gifted writer recently told me that doing something he loves often helps him get past writer’s block. So for a week I took his advice but still nothing. Until today. Oddly it was doing something I dislike. I was in a mall, shopping for dresses. Don’t get me wrong I like buying new clothing, but I don't like the shopping process. It also helps my attitude if I am shopping in comfortable shoes, which is simply a matter of planning. I had not planned to spend four hours in Macy's today. But a charitable event was looming and I realized after my class ended that if I did not get to the nearest mall today, I’d be attending the gala in something <gasp> "vintage". I had this epiphany while sporting pointy toed boots with heels.

Trying on formal wear is as deflating as trying on bathing suits. If the dress is not showing all of my flaws, it’s probably because it fits like a potato sack. And if it fits like a glove, that means I will be wearing full body Spanx and suffering from oxygen deprivation by the end of the evening. But that gets into a whole other realm of shopping for unmentionables which is about as satisfying as installing french drains: nobody sees them but your foundation is questionable without them. 

My past experience has been that Macy's carries a large selection of reasonably priced formal attire. I could quickly try on a few from the sale rack and be back in my car in an hour. But today the selection was disappointing.  I chose several dresses from the main racks which would later be disqualified in the fitting room. (Two would be age appropriate for me at my grandchild’s wedding in 2050. Two others exposed cleavage I would have been more comfortable exposing in 1988.) From there I went to the clearance rack to find "season appropriate" dresses and was having some success. Wading past the velvet, bugle beads and plenty of frumpy attire, I spotted a long black ruched taffeta sheath, with cap sleeves and a simple ruffled v-neck collar. It was so chic. And it was my size! This was the one!

Next I found myself in the fitting room and I was stuck. Not stuck in the dressing room itself but in the dress. I’ve done it before and you’d think I’d have some Houdini moves by now. First, the skin tight dress apparently ran a bit small; at least that is what I told myself and later the sales assistant. Second the zipper started at the small of my back and ended somewhere between my shoulder blades. For those in the dark, taffeta does not stretch or give. To make matters worse, a few strings had become stuck in the zipper somewhere around T-7 of my spinal column. Now panic was mounting. Using perspiration as a lubricant, I was somehow able to maneuver my arms out of the armholes and twist the dress an inch at a time until the zipper was on my left. This took some time and patience. But I was determined to see this dress on me. Finally the threads dislodged, I thought perhaps I could finish zipping and then twist it back. But as I started to zip a little more, I caught some skin and nearly fainted.  It was time to either admit defeat or request a bigger size.

Changing into a different dress, I slinked out to the registers and managed to attract the attention of the surly sales associate who had been doing her best to ignore me so far. "Do you have this in the next size?" I chirped while holding up the object of my affection. A quick check of the computer database and a snarl in her voice revealed that a larger size was supposed to be in stock but it was not to be found in the rack inventory.... and something told me she was not up for the hunt. Grabbing my handbag from the dressing room I continued to unsuccessfully scour the racks in a matronly frock and bare aching feet; quite a sight for the security cameras and I'm praying it does not turn up on YouTube. Two hours later my new dilemma was choosing between two other dresses that I liked but did not adore, and finding sassy footwear, which does not imply practical footwear. So I surrendered, bought them both and set off to the shoe department for more aggravation.

An hour later, juggling several bags, my throbbing feet carried my weary body to the car. Of course I had walked an extra mile trying to recall exactly which entrance I entered hours earlier. I was nibbling on the $2 Godiva chocolate bar that Macy's strategically places at the registers for women with no willpower when I began to replay the dress scene in my head and rallied in my amusement.  On the  drive home I began to make mental notes for story ideas. Then it dawned on me; while one man finds inspiration is in doing things he loves I am quite possibly the opposite. It's the day to day absurdities of my ordinary and often chaotic life that often inspire me. I guess I was not supposed to have that dress for a reason. I think I figured out why.