6.1.14

A Love Letter to the Dress I Bought and Returned

Dear Dress,

I wasn't looking to buy anything when we first met.  I doubt I would have given you a second look if my friend hadn't pointed you out.  Emboldened by a few happy hour sangrias, I took you to the dressing room to try you on. 

My friend was right.  You looked great on me.  Your rich aqua color made my eyes sparkle.  Your lacy cap sleeves softened my muscular shoulders.  Your flouncy skirt skimmed my knees at just the right level, concealing the bulk of my quads and emphasizing the definition of my calves.  I couldn't help but twirl in front of the mirror, craning my neck to watch you float and drape around my body. 

I wore you out of the dressing room and into the body of the store to show my friend how good we looked together.  We caught the eye of several bored men, dutifully holding up the walls while waiting for wives, girlfriends and daughters.  For a split second, they didn't look so bored. 

Though you were a bit pricey, I bought you and took you home because you made me feel . . .  beautiful.  Feminine.  Priceless.

I tried you on again that night to show you off to my family.  I expected them to ooh and ahh at the magical combination of your frilly contours and my sharp edges, but they were less than impressed by our duet.

"Where would you wear it?"
"Your bra straps show in the back."
"That color is too bold for you."
"What shoes would you wear?"
"You're more of a little black dress kind of girl."

I could have fought for you, but deep down, I was afraid they might be right.  Your flounce and frill are frivolous.  You would hang silently in the corner of my dark closet.  My lifestyle would bore you.  A dress like you deserves to be seen.  Paraded, envied and admired.  You, dear dress, have places to go.  Together, we would go nowhere. 

So I released you, returned you to the company of similarly frivolous articles of clothing at the fashionable fantasyland we call Anthropologie.  I pray that one of your many other admirers will take you home and give you the life you deserve. 

Perhaps after a series of first dates (or one night stands), you will cross my path again.  I will see you hanging in a thrift store, or languishing among eBay listings, worn, but no worse for the wear.  You, my dear, are a classic.  Timeless and exquisite. 

Should the fates allow us meet again, I will bring you home a second and final time.  Dry clean and mend you, if necessary.  I will make an occasion to wear you, even if it's just a quiet, shoeless, strapless, candlelit evening at home, just you and me, a bottle of bubbly, and big band standards serenading us from the speakers. 

You'd be so nice . . . You'd be paradise . . . to come home to and love.

Wistfully yours,

Your size 4 admirer

5 comments:

Laurie Gutierrez said...

Oh Molly!!!!! You didn't listen to the Nay-Sayers!?:(. It was perfect....sometimes frivolity, well, sometimes.....beautifully written break up letter and i think you ought to go back and have another date....you deserve it, you felt good in it, you looked fabulous in it! It was a fabulous find and was meant to be.....I will support you either way....Miss Molly:) lol... I too will mourn your loss.

house on hill road said...

watch the sales. it sounds too good to let go.
at the same time, i completely and totally understand why you returned it. and more power to you for it. happy new year, friend.

Auntie G-ma said...

I'm so proud of you for taking it back. . . it might have been hard to do it, but I guarantee that you will never have another moment better in it than the one you shared with your friends in the store. As always, bravo Mrs. Dunham! I wish I had your wisdom when I was your age!

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