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.
Your size 4 admirer