So a friend is getting married in two weeks, in a spectacular concert venue in San Francisco, and I am starting to think about arranging for someone to care for my Fangor, thinking about making a packing list, about planning outfits for planned outings. And starting to panic about the dress for the wedding. This is not something that is usually a problem, or very dramatic or full of magnificent hair-tearing. But this time, I am pretty sure I am going to end up at the venue wearing a tuxedo T-shirt and yoga shorts, carrying a bunch of balloons.
Here is the dramatic saga: The first dress, a find, from J. Crew! Very much on sale and pretty much perfect–elegant, leopard patterned shift dress in silk twill. Size too small, but I took a chance and pounced on it. I waited a week and a half and then called, and they said woops! We’re out of those! We have totally cancelled your order without telling you. I grumbled and was cross, but I had plenty of time.
Out of curiosity, I peeked back at the site–and there it was! On more
sale! In a size that would totally fit me! It came so quickly! It was a
sack. A sad, ironic sack of silk twill. I looked like the world’s most
expensive match girl. That dress, seeing as how it was on clearance
and is unreturnable, is sitting on the floor of my apartment, a
monument to the great evils of vanity sizing, waiting for me to figure
out what the hell I’m going to do with it.
Dress two: marigold yellow nanette lepore in a beautiful silk linen
blend, and on so-great sale, and appeared at my house within a matter
of minutes–seriously, ninjas burst from my freezer with a package
marked “Urgent!” and I stripped down and climbed in and zipped up and
was so excited because it fit, like a glove. A sexy, sexy glove. It was
a spectacular color, even though it was yellow! I could wear it again
at the formal Christmas party at E’s work and I think I will wear black
shoes and what is this? Did it not zip all the way? It must be stuck.
On the imaginary seam. It is not going up. This must be some kind of
crazy mistake. I packed up the dress and took it with me to meet E for
dinner, and made him wait while I changed in his work bathroom and came
padding out and demanded he zip me up.
“It’s not zipping, baby,” he said. “Nooooooo!” I wailed. “It’s very
nice,” he offered. “It’s just–it doesn’t zip all the way up.” Because
my ribcage is freakishly large and outsized and made of LIVING EVIL. I
packaged my beautiful dress up and sent it back, scrawling hopefully on
the invoice: Can be exchanged for one size up, please? Please
exchange yes please SAY YES. They refunded my money last week.
Dresses three through seven: two hours at the mall, trekking from store
to store, from Amish Town (J. Jill and Ann Taylor) to Hoochie Town
(holy crap, Bebe and Arden B. are hilarious…and stretchy). I spent 45 minutes with a nice lady at Banana Republic and a cavalcade
of pretty dresses, trying them on and taking them off, her assuring me
that they were lovely, me wishing she’d find someone else to help
because I felt guilty about taking up all her time and like I had to
buy a dress just to repay her. I didn’t.
Dresses eight and nine: things, getting ridiculous, and time running
out. Me, getting impatient and a little worried. Why is this hard? It
ought not be hard. Beautiful Anthropologie dress in a beautiful color:
incredibly, weirdly heavy, weirdly damp-feeling jersey. And I look
stupid. Next! Beautiful silver wrap dress, makes me look like I’m
wearing a beautiful silver trash bag. Send it back.
My last resort, a red sheath dress, is heading this way now, and if it
does not work out, I am going to be flying into San Francisco and
trying to convince friends that the way we should totally catch up
and enjoy each other’s company is by watching me fly from store to
store, trying dresses on and maybe crying a little bit. Please cross
your fingers for my dress?