The DRESS

Lots of women have asked me about “THE DRESS”.  I don’t blame them.  It is, frankly, awe inspiring.  It’s the piece de resistance in my dress up box, a pink confection of such magnitude that women who see it sigh from both happiness and jealousy.  This beauty weighs about five pounds and possesses a train that’s over six feet and so frothy it’s about a foot high.  It’s a quinceanera dress, a dress 15 year old hispanic girls wear for their coming out.  I am not only delighted to be able to squeeze, albeit uncomfortably, into it and never contemplate the fact that it was probably a chubby youth who wore it originally.  ImageI

I’ve worn it to several parties, numerous Friday night cocktail get togethers on my porch or around the fire pit and once, to the feed store. I wore it as a zombie this Halloween.  If you’re going to have to be a zombie, might as well be a fashionable one. I still have all my own puffy prom dresses and, believe me, my friends have, on many occasions, put them on as well.

One might think such perfection would be a stand out at the feed store, but that would be incorrect. I had a book club luncheon at my house once.  The book was the YaYa Sisterhood book.  We all came dressed, well, big.  After a long lunch someone mentioned that they had to go home and change and go to the feed store.  Then someone else mentioned that there were baby chicks available at the store and somehow, we all ended up in the car, big dresses and hair, on the way.

Walking in, we expected exclamations and fawning, such as we deserved.  We got NOTHING.  Not a raised eyebrow, not a leer, not one question as to why we were dressed thusly.  I can only assume that the feed store man has a wife at home who has him so thoroughly beaten down that nothing surprised him or that he had been taught southern manners by his mama and just didn’t want to say the wrong thing.  Either way, we got our 6 bags of horse food, a box of chicks and left.

The one bright spot was that the evil neighbor who lives between The Trophy Wife and me did see us getting into the car and, again, standing at the mailbox dressed beautifully and we know it only goes towards the many reasons why she hates us.  We love that.

So many people have called or messaged me about the dress.  I’m not kidding.  Nothing I’ve done in a while has spawned so many questions and comments.  At least not to my face.  Next election, I’m lending it to Ron Paul in the hopes that it will help his cause.

Ladies, you too can find your special princess dress at Goodwill or your fine Hispanic supplier.  I’m telling you, when you feel down, nothing will pick you up like going through your day with a poofy polyester train.  When your husband comes home, he’ll know you’re up to something, but just not what.  It’s good to keep your man on his toes.  Send me your pictures.  We’ll start a movement of sorts.  We’ll be the princesses we forgot to be AND get to hide a multitude of sins under those diaphanous layers.  We could form clubs, open restaurants where hoops would be a requirement.  I’m seeing that this could be the sparkle that’s gone out of many of our middle aged lives.

Let me know how this works out for you.  As for me, I’m going to take an aspirin as my tiara is giving me a headache.

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