Dress shopping has pretty much driven me into a deep state of depression. Medication may be needed by the time a dress is purchased. I am hoping for massive quantities of Thorazine where I can sit and drool while staring at the paint on the walls after this shopping event is complete. The dress is for an important date. Dateman is going to take me out for my birthday; there will be dinner and dancing. And yes, that is ballroom dancing, like the Foxtrot or the Waltz. [Small pause while my family and close friends collect themselves from falling on the ground with laughter at the thought of me doing a proper dance.] The story goes like this. I took ballet and tap dancing lessons as a child for one year. My mother and grandmother agreed I needed to gain some pose in my step. You see when I walked through a doorway; I would enviably run into the doorframe. Being graceful is not within my DNA pattern. I was a tall, thin, gangly girl growing up who was given about as much grace as Chevy Chase during a SNL skit. Therefore, I took to ballet like Vikings took to table manners. When it came time for the next year’s registration, the dance instructor kindly told my mother my talents were not in dance, and maybe I should take up an instrument where I would do less damage. You see, it is not good to do a pirouette and wipe out two or three other dancers in the process.
Mr. Date is fully aware of Dategirl’s lack of dancing skills from a previous date and has agreed to take her dancing for her birthday anyway. At this point, we might start to question Dateman’s judgment. Either, he is the sweetest man alive or a reincarnation of the Marquis De Sade. A firm rule has been decreed. Mr. Date leads without exception unless of course we find ourselves in a drunken stooper at a Stone Temple Pilot concert where we are standing two feet away from a mosh pit, and then he is quite happy to let me lead. I suppose it is a good rule. However, I do like to break it from time to time. Especially, when we are on a dance floor near tables or walls, I find it very hard to believe that he is not going to ram me into the waiter’s drink station to try and cripple me. This is usually where I come to a complete stop or try to quickly run in another direction. Thus, causing the following actions:
Leg tangling
Knee to the groin
Accidental head butting
All of which he frowns upon while dancing. The most amazing part of him teaching me to dance is that he doesn’t mind when I step on his feet. Probably, it is less painful then a trip to the hospital from a concussion caused by one of my Circus O’lay panic attacks. Maybe, I should be taking Paxil to ease my anxiety over dancing. Sidebar: Dateman has stated that I never need to worry about fulfilling “The girl with a stripper pole” fantasy for him. We discussed it, and I told him I would be happy to do it. However, I would have to wear a helmet and shin guards. Let’s visualize shall we? Humm… It doesn’t matter how sexy the bra and panties are when you are wearing a Hello Kitty bicycle helmet and an inflatable donut strapped on as a butt guard. The man has a good point.
So let us get back to what to wear? Let’s go shopping; Macy’s is always having a sale.
“Come On Down! Dategirl, you're the next contestant on The Price Is Right! What garment options are behind door number one? Johnny?”
The Hippy dresses: electric blue, orange and green splotches of color all on same dress. Bob, there is no cut to the dress, and it is as limp as a gay man’s handshake at a Rambo convention. Oh and just for fun, there is a 10 inch bright yellow daisy right were the crotch might be. It is perfect for the desperate over 40 divorcee.
The ‘Leave it to Beaver’ mom dress: this dress is sleeveless with a scoop neck and a form fitting bodice with a cute matching mini cardigan. Then at the waist, the dress flares out to a 95 degree angle from the torso making Dategirl look like a cross between June Cleaver and an ax murdering a ballet dancer.
“Those sound nice, Johnny. What else do we have for our reluctant cougar?”
The Prostitutes for God dress: these dresses are more confused then a transvestite at a paraphernalia sale at an adult book store. This dress could be worn by a nun where the length of the dress comes down to about a ¼ inch from the peri-menopausal swollen ankles only to show off a nice cluster of varicose veins. Cross that with a street walker where the top of the dress barely has enough material to cover one deflated, sagging boob let alone two of them. And forget about the arms, Bob, those flabby pieces of flesh are just out flapping in the wind for all to see.
The Multiple Personality dress: The tag on this dress states it can be worn as a dress or a skirt. Humm… Let’s see. It is brown broomstick skirt with a string attached at the top front. This is the ‘Please stay up as a dress’ device. So it can be warn as a really long skirt or a really short dress where both options make our ‘hopelessly 40” look like she is wearing a brown paper bag with rubber bands attached at the top to secure the garment.
Time is ticking and girl you need a dress. What are you going to do?
In a crazed frenzy, I began looking in every department in the store. In the suit section, I was hoping to maybe wear a sexy blouse with an A-framed skirt going for the sultry sophisticated look. All I found were lots of spinster Fema-natzi suits that seemed to scream, “This vagina is closed.” So in an act of desperation, I wondered around the lingerie department hoping to find a really pretty dress slip to wear because it covered more of me than the dresses I saw earlier. Apparently, this Macy’s has the corner market on Granny Panties to go with the Barbara Bush suit collection. I’ll keep that in mind if I decide to become Amish!
As luck would have it, Macy’s has a boutique line of really expensive clothing hidden in a back corner. The dresses were perfect: sexy not trampy and smart not frumpy. The actual retail price is...$128.00 F*$%&$! Crushed, I put the dress back on the rack. I started to walk out of the department store defeated. I had been in every department store in the mall and every side store except the Deb shop. It should be illegal for anyone over the age of 19 to make purchases in that store. Anyway…When out of the corner of my eye, I saw a very small rack that had a Sale sign above it. Yes I know. I have shopped enough at Talbots and J.Jills to know that the clothing on sale rack is still more than I can afford. Oh, look a t-shirt is on sale for $34.99. Could some body just shoot me? So, I flipped through the clothing in a mindless daze. And there it was. An Empire waist, scoop neck, cute short sleeve dress that when I held it up, it came to my knee. Perfect. It was in a big eggplant and black paisley print. My colors, yes! I go and try it on. I have to have this dress. Suddenly, Bob Barker comes out of nowhere and says “The actually retail price is…$38.99 sold to our first contestant in the rose print granny panties, a desperate housewife from North Carolina. Johnny, can you tell her what she has won?”
“Well, Bob, the empire waist lengthens her legs giving her a lean appearance. As an added bonus, the empire waist combined with the neckline makes her boobs look larger and perkier than they have looked BBF (Before Beast Feeding).” Dategirl screams uncontrollably while jumping up and down in the dressing room when looking down at her shoes, a pair of Clark mules; who are so tired, they can only manage a squeaky murmur for help. Dategirl sits on the floor, stares at her shoes/dog chew toy and quietly pops a Paxil. “All right shoe shopping, here I come with my two different sized feet!”
