The Little Black Dress

THE LITTLE BLACK DRESS



         Did you ever watch “Sex and the City?”  It’s one of my favorite shows.  There are four women my age who are stylish, confident, self-assured, and seem to have more money than any Rockefeller.  I can identify a little with all four of them.  There’s Carrie, who like me is a writer, and like me is too much into herself and questions everything around her.  Her best friend is Miranda, a lawyer, who is down to earth and takes no crap.  She’s more the way I’d like to be.  Charlotte reminds me more of Audrey Hepburn than myself, but she can be a little ditzy, and she is the only one of the four that is a brunette, like me.  Then there’s Samantha.  Samantha is rich, sassy, and has way too many boyfriends . . . okay, I have nothing in common with her, but she sure is fun!

         I want to be like those fantasy girls.  I think they are glamorous and classy, something that, most days, I definitely am not! 

         First off, there’s the issue of geography.  They are in Manhattan, I am in North Carolina.  They live in upscale apartments; I live in a little brick rancher.  They travel around town in taxis and limos, while I drive a big-green-mini-van with no air conditioning because I can’t afford to fix it.  They eat in fancy restaurants and hang out in trendy clubs.  I eat at McDonalds and go to weekend matinees.  They wear Victoria Secret underwear, and I wear Hanes Her Way.

The biggest difference is that I’m a Mom.  I started having kids right out of high school, and had my latest one four months ago.  Motherhood and glamour do not usually go hand-in-hand.  Usually, the average Mom can’t afford a closet-full of designer dresses or pay hundreds of dollars for a pair of shoes.  And, if we could afford those clothes, where would we wear them?  The office, maybe?  But, then again, there would always be a huge dry-cleaning bill because, as soon as we’d get dressed in the morning, the baby would spit up on us, the preschooler would wipe jelly on us, or we’d get something on ourselves as we took out the trash. 

         After I’d had my daughter, I’d lost some weight.  I lost “baby fat” and “marriage pounds” and got back down to “college pudge.”  I had invested in a nice little wardrobe, size 12.  I work in an office, and even though it’s business casual, well, I am expected to wear something a little nicer than a t-shirt with bleach stains and yoga-pants!  As always seems to happen with us moms, as soon as we reach our pre-pregnancy weight, it’s time to get pregnant again!  So, a year and ½ later, all those pretty size 12 dresses and slacks are hanging in my closet, and I’m back in the yoga pants.

         Buying clothes is hard when you have two children under five.  When shopping in the average department store, there’s always the temptation to run right past the ladies’ clothes and go straight to children’s.  It’s more fun to shop for them, and then there’s not the guilt for buying things for yourself and not spending your hard-earned money on them.  I may look like a bum, but my kids look like little models.  When I do make it to the ladies’ department, I have to hurry and just grab something because the baby is hungry, the four-year-old is restless, and the husband just wants to get out of there.  Most of my clothes nowadays are bought online and are nursing tops.  Not exactly what Carrie or Charlotte would be caught dead in, but it makes breastfeeding easier.           

         But tonight, I was going to shop!  I didn’t have the money to buy anything, but I could at least look at the “classier” stuff in my local department store.  I held back the temptation to go to the children’s department and steered the stroller straight for “Career Wear” to look at (gasp!) dresses.

         “I need something like this,” I explained to my husband while holding up a black and pink sweater set. 

         “Okay” he said slowly, looking at the price-tag and raising an eyebrow. 

         “Look how cute it is!”  I held it up to my body, the busy-woman’s way of trying clothes on.

         “Yeah, it’s on sale!”  Hubby replied. 

         I put it back on the rack and continued to explore the pantsuits and sundresses.  My little girl sang and twirled in front of mirrors and kept wandering farther away from us.  I followed her and continued to browse the racks.  As I got farther away from the clearance area, I soon found myself surrounded by fine dresses with huge price tags.  I called to my daughter to “come back this way” when I saw it. The one thing every glamorous woman should have in her closet, according to Cosmopolitan.  It was The “little black dress.”

         It was a size 16, sleeveless, with a knee-length hemline and a little pink ribbon on its “Empire” waistline.  On sale, it still had a $90 price tag.  While it was way out of my budget, it called to me.  It called out, “Try me on!  Look fancy for a few minutes!  You always have cleaned up well!”

         There are those moments in a woman’s life when she feels beautiful.  I can count mine with all the fingers of one hand:  Prom night; my wedding day; my children’s birthdays.  I wanted one of those “beautiful” moments.  I imagined myself stepping out of the dressing room in that little black dress, looking very sexy, and my husband sweeping me into his arms and saying, “I’d forgotten just how beautiful you are, and I love you even more!” 

         I carried the dress over to the clearance area where Hubby was shopping for me and pushing the stroller.  “Look at this one!”  I exclaimed, holding it against me. 

         Men never truly appreciate a dress unless it a) shows cleavage and b) is on sale.  Hubby took one look at the price tag and lost all interest in the dress. 

         I was not to be deterred!  “I think I’ll try it on!  It looks like something Charlotte from ‘Sex in the City’” would wear.”  I told him.

         He grunted. Not being a fan of “Sex in the City”, he probably didn’t have any idea which one Charlotte was, much less what style of clothing she wore.  But, if it made me happy, then he was willing to watch the kids while I tried it on.  If there’s one thing my husband is, it’s a good sport.

         I was giddy as I pulled off my nursing top and faded jeans.  For once, I was going to look pretty—no, classy!  Sophisticated!  I was going to knock Hubby’s socks off.  And, maybe when I got paid next week, I would come back and buy the dress.  I didn’t know where I’d wear it to, or how I would afford the dry-cleaning, but I would have one fancy dress.  I’d never have to say, “I have nothing to wear”.  Then, I pulled it over my head and shoulders.  And it stuck.

         I tugged, and wiggled, and tugged again.  This couldn’t be right!  This dress is a size 16, for Pete’s sake!  I finally got it over my belly and hips, but it was snug.  When I tried to zip it up, it was so tight in the chest that I couldn’t get my arms around to reach the zipper.  I held the back of the dress with one hand and smoothed it over my abdomen with the other.  I could see every fat roll and love handle.  The “little black dress” is supposed to be one of the most flattering things a woman can wear, but it made me look like a pig in a poke!

         Crestfallen, I went to the dressing room door to show Hubby.  He had chased our daughter to another part of the store, so I had to call him several times as I stood barefoot and half-zipped in this too-tight dress.  He came over and instead of being enraptured by my beauty; he just shook his head and gave me a look that said, “Honey, you have got to lay off the chocolate chip cookies!”

         ‘Zip me up!”  I barked at him. 

         He did so obediently and silently, as every well-trained husband will do when he knows that if he says anything, he will regret it. 

“I need a girdle.”  I said, hopefully. 

         “It’s a little tight, honey.”  He agreed.

         A girdle wouldn’t help the situation, and besides, as far as I know they don’t make nursing girdles.  I slunk back into the dressing room to put my Mommy Clothes back on.  As I hung the dress back onto the hanger, I stared into the mirror and took a good, hard look at myself.

         I had to admit that I was not anyone’s idea of a beautiful, glamorous woman.  My hair is limp and frizzy from the summer humidity.  My top has those lovely double openings that may as well serve as a ‘Nursing mother!” sign on my chest.  My jeans are about 8 years old and hand-me-downs from my mother.  Even with a little bleach spot; they are one of my best pairs.  My sandals were those cheap cloth sandals anyone can buy at a discount store for $5.  I wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup.  I was kidding myself.  I just wasn’t meant to look glamorous.  Maybe it was my breeding, maybe it was my personality, or maybe it was just the way I had grown up.  But, I was a plain Jane, and there was no part of me that was truly beautiful.

         I came out of the dressing room feeling sorry for myself.  Hubby was standing there by the stroller, patiently waiting.  Our daughter had tired of dancing in front of the mirrors and was now sitting in a chair.  She was wearing her sunglasses and singing.  My baby boy was in the stroller, chewing on his hands.  When he saw me, his blue eyes widened and he squealed something that sounded like “Hey!”

         “Mommy’s back!”  My daughter shouted and hugged me. 

         The saleswoman was straightening clothes nearby.  She spoke to me as I put the little black dress back on the rack.  “You have beautiful children.  That little girl of yours is a future movie star!” 

         “She is, isn’t she?” I laughed and watched my little diva, now dancing her imaginary ballet to the delight of some nearby shoppers.

         I started to feel a little better then.  It may be true that I’m plain, that I’m not meant to be glamorous in a little black dress.  There are more important things than beautiful dresses, I reminded myself.  There are my children, who bring me far more joy than wearing that dress ever could.  Carrie, Charlotte, and the rest of them are a fantasy.  I know that somewhere, women like them may actually exist, but they are not here in my universe.  Here, I am a Mom in a small town who works and breastfeeds and reads stories and drives a mini-van. I am like millions of mothers in America. Maybe that is glamorous in its own way. 

         And, then again, maybe if I swear off those chocolate chip cookies for awhile, I can come back for that little black dress.