from the looking glass stretching out to touch me. I step backwards putting myself just out of reach of the upcoming lick. As much as I would appreciate the attention, I don’t think it is appropriate behavior for the first date. I push the wiggling flesh back toward the mirror with the palm of my hand promising to wear the dress as soon as socially possible.
Let’s try the orange one next. The fit is good, not too tight. The sleeves end just above the elbow; the hemline, however, is another thing. I pull at the waist hoping more fabric is waiting to fall toward the floor, but no luck. Maybe if I wiggle at the same time it will grow longer. Nope it is still too short. I have great legs but no one over twenty-five should wear a mini skirt. This color orange is too bright anyways. I could never get lost in the crowd wearing this. What if I have to duck out the back because the date is just that bad? Everyone would see this bright orange figure running down the street. They could easily point out where I was going so he could find me. Then I would have to make up an excuse for running out on the date. I can’t make up excuses that would not hurt his feelings that fast. The truth would blurt out and there would definitely be no second date. This dress would cause too much trouble so I had better pass. Maybe I should look for something with a pattern. I have not looked at anything with stripes or polka dots yet. I wonder if they still make dresses with polka dots. Does anyone use the word polka anymore when talking about dots? I don’t think so. I will just look at a few more racks.
Opening the door of the dressing room all I see is a sea of fabric. Starring me in the face are racks and racks of fabric. My head pounds just thinking about immersing myself back into that ocean of colors, fabrics, shapes and styles. As I slump against the door jam, a sales associate makes her way over to the dressing room.
“Can I help you?” she asks excessively cheerfully. Awkwardly, she leans toward the half-open door to see what the dressing room looks like. I can tell by the look on her face she knows exactly how long I have been in there. A look of concern slowly spreads across her face as she surveys the explosion of clothing inside the room.
“Why yes you can,” my mind screams. “You can help me find the dress that will impress my date so much he swears undying love and devotions. You can help me find fabric that flows gently over my mature but impressive body without making me look like a hooker. You, my dear, can help me find a complete outfit in this store so I can finally go home, take a hot shower, and sleep peacefully knowing I will look fabulous come Saturday night.” As I look at the poor woman, I realize she cannot help me, I must do this myself. Reluctantly sighing, I mutter “no thanks” and head out to the sales floor.
I snake around the perimeter looking for a rack I have not rejected yet with little success. Finding the polka dot dress section is easy. There is a big flashing sign over head with an arrow pointing downward. The words “Ugly Dress Section” pulse in bright green letters. Curiosity gets the better of me as I move in the direction of the light. Reaching out toward the dresses my hand brushes the fabric and flinches as if burned by a match. I’m not fussy but cheap fabric has a distinct feel. I can just imagine wearing one of these dresses against my skin. As I walk into the restaurant, my shoulder starts to itch. I try to ignore the sensation when my thigh joins in. I reach down with my hand and ever so slightly scratch the area but to no relief. The itch has now moved to my breast just under the nipple. There is no way to reach that itch nonchalantly. I’d either suffer or look like I’m having a spasm throughout my entire body. With my luck music would be playing and the other diners would think my jerking around was some new dance craze. I wonder if Rick would wait long enough to ask what was going on or just bolt out the back door. No way am I taking that chance. Might as well look at the choices while I’m here so I can say I put every effort into finding this perfect dress. Who knows, I just might get some inspiration.
Stripes, squares, geometric shapes, none of these should ever find their way onto fabric worn in public. Maybe that is my mistake. These garments should only come out of the closet from behind closed doors. There is probably a secret society devoted to wearing ugly clothing. They would be just the opposite of being a nudist. I’m not sure I would want to live with anyone who dresses like this at home. The advantage would have to be with the nudists. At least they did not pay good money to look this bad. I have seen street people better dressed than what is offered here. As I thumb through the racks all I can think of is how unproductive this is. I need to find a dress before the end of the day and time is quickly running out. Turning away in disgust at my inability to find a simple frock for a simple dinner my eyes are distracted by a glimpse of color. Squinting to get a closer look the color seems to be cranberry. Mesmerized I move in that direction as if following a beacon. My pace quickens as I realize the color belongs to a dress. My eyes dart in all directions searching for anyone else who may have seen the same dress. I need to get there first. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion toward the Holy Grail. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman look in the same direction as the dress and I panic. I cannot let anyone else get there before me. Suddenly my footsteps match the speed of the pulse racing through my veins. The other woman picks up speed as if she knows what I’m thinking. Run, run quickly but inconspicuously I yell at my legs to try to get them moving. Just then, a mother pushes her baby buggy in the path of my rival considerably slowing her down. As she tries to maneuver around the obstacle, I reach out touching the dress. I won, I won, I won! I cannot believe it I actually won.
Wait a minute my sensible side says. Let’s just look at the dress before we get all excited about winning. Considering how our luck has been today we may be celebrating prematurely. You are right I concede. Let’s just look before we leap. Slowly I focus on the dress. Holding it up to my chest, it seems to be the right length. I will be able to wear two-inch heels with no problem. Laying the fabric over my arms, I can see the sleeves will fall just above my elbows. I won’t have to worry about how my upper arms look until I have fully captured Rick’s undying adoration. At least until summer rolls around which will give me enough time to pretend to work out. The scoop neckline will show enough cleavage to
show off a nice necklace that won’t get lost in the folds of breast tissue. A band just underneath the neckline will serve as a cinch while the fabric falls away to just above the knees. Even the color is perfect. A deep cranberry compliments my pale skin and will be a nice backdrop for the gold jewelry I have as accessories.
It shouldn’t be too hard to find shoes to finish the outfit. A nice gold sling back will do just fine. There’s just one more test to pass before I can rest easily. How much is this going to cost? Slowly my fingers reach for the dangling price tag with trepidation. Please, please let this be a reasonable price. I start to hyperventilate as the numbers register, thirty-nine ninety-nine jumps off the tag. Hallelujah, I have found my dress. Even if the date goes all to hell, at least I won’t have blown my budget for nothing. If the date goes really well, so what if some fabric does not make it through the night, I’m still not out much money. Checking the time, I’m impressed with my performance. It is only twelve forty five; I still have money left and plenty of time for lunch. Finally, the day is looking up. Reaching down I grab the phone as it vibrates on my hip.
“Hello,” I say waiting for the sweet sound of heaven to reach my ears.
“Good morning. I just had a few minutes between stops and thought I’d give you a call.” Rick’s voice is so sexy just hearing it over the phone gets me excited.
“I’m glad you did. I’m at the mall trying to find an outfit for Saturday night and I could use some support. I’ve never seen so many ugly dresses in my life.”
“You certainly have legs that should be shown off in a dress.” Oh my god, did I hear a hint of excitement in his voice? He’s looking forward to this date as much as I am.
“Nice of you to notice,” I reply trying not to sound too excited. “Hopefully you will notice a few more things Saturday n
ight.” Wow, I’m not this forward with someone I’m just starting a relationship with but there is no time to waste. From the outfit to the attitude he’s not going to have to wonder if I find him attractive. This outfit has to scream classy woman must have your body repeatedly. If push comes to shove, I’ll grab his package to get the message across. He seems to be a smart man so I doubt that will be necessary to get his attention. Later on that night, I plan to grab his package along with his butt and every other body part I can reach while on my back.
“I’ll let you get back to shopping. Have fun and I will call you later.” Smiling to myself, I replace my phone in its holder clicking it in place with a new sense of purpose. I have set the hook now I just need to reel him in.
1:00 PM
A rumbling stomach reminds me it’s time to find some lunch. Clutching my newly purchased frock, I head out of the store toward the food court. I’m feeling so satisfied I would whistle if I could. Instead, I hum as I leisurely stroll toward sustenance. It would do no good to find the perfect outfit but not have enough strength to put it on and dazzle my date. I wonder if it would be too morbid to leave a note to be buried in this dress if I die before dinner on Saturday night. It would be a shame to waste the perfect outfit. Knowing my sons, I would have to leave a large poster nailed to the television with instructions for the proper burial. I can picture the three of them trying to figure out who would have to dress me. Rock paper scissors would probably be the prevailing decision making tool. Either that or the older two would convince the younger one he was the favorite child which would make it his duty to make sure Mom was properly dress at her own funeral. I can almost feel the love.
Finally at the food court, I realize it is time for a little nourishment and relaxation. This decision will be much easier than the last. I’m sitting down in a booth and letting someone else wait on me. I duck into the first restaurant just in time to hear the melody of crying babies. Hungry babies cannot eat restaurant food and would rather be home in bed. Just what I wanted to hear while eating. I scan the seating area to see how far away from the noise I can get while I wait for someone to seat me. I spot a booth in the corner that will do just fine. I point out the seat to the hostess who is either too bored to care or in a very agreeable mood, either way
I’m settled far away from the noise.
Sipping a cup of coffee, my mind starts to focus on what is next on the list. It should be easier to find shoes. A plain color that is comfortable will suit me just fine. Probably gold or silver would be a safe choice. Black would be too dark, brown not spiffy enough. My feet must sparkle but not clash with my jewelry. I wonder if I can find a pair of ruby slippers just in case I need an escape route. Instead of running out the back door or climbing through the bathroom window, I could just close my eyes, click the heels together, and wish myself back in the comfort of my own home. Besides, if it doesn’t work, as long as my eyes were closed, I can always deny it ever happened. Just like when we were little kids hiding behind our hands. As long as we couldn’t see anything, we believed they couldn’t see us either. Imagine if that really worked. If a cop stops you for speeding, put your hands over your eyes and pretend it never happened. When the cop reaches the window, put your palms over your eyes and presto chango, no ticket. The cop could talk all he wants but no one would hear him. He would finally leave, shaking his head wondering what was happening. Once he realized there would be no rational paperwork to file, he would adjust and look for another lawbreaker. I’m sure within minutes a new prospect would pass by giving reason for another pursuit.
“Here’s your sandwich,” the waitress says as she places the Ruben in front of me. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No thanks,” I answer silently inhaling the aroma of corned beef mixed with the sweet smell of Thousand Island dressing. “On second thought I’ll take some more coffee please.”
“Alright, I’ll be right back with it.” As the waitress crosses the room, I place a silent bet on when or if she comes back. Quite often, they take your order and never return. It’s as if they are just parroting the words hoping everyone says no thanks thus letting them continue on their way to the back room. I’ve always wondered what goes on in that backroom. A clatter from the back sounds just like the tinkling of glasses hitting together like a toast. I think I hear a giggle float through the open door.
Looking around for the restroom, I see it is just past the secret swinging door where all the curious noise is coming from. I make my way to the restroom pausing ever so slightly to sneak a peek through the window half expecting to see party hats and confetti littering the counters. Instead, cooks with pots and pans clanging mingle in the kitchen cracking jokes to pass the time along with the oregano. Ducking my head so as not to seem like I was eavesdropping I continue toward the restroom.
Once inside I catch my reflection in the mirror. Lips form a smirk as I silently congratulate myself on what I have accomplished so far. I have the perfect dress, which only took me 3 hours to find. I’m in the middle of a satisfying lunch that I have not spilled on myself. Most importantly, I have a plan for the next part of the day. I’m going to spend time looking at every pair of shoes I can find until the right pair jump out at me. Turning around I realize this is the perfect place to start looking. If I stand right in front of the sink and tilt my head sideways, I can see each pair of shoes resting under each stall. I can scan every color and style, take mental notes on what works and what does not without being considered a pervert. So far, all I see are two pair of black pumps. No sparkles no shine how boring. Even the most staid outfit is jazzier with a bright vibrant pair of shoes. They don’t have to be heels, flats or ballet type slippers will also do the trick. Nice shoes are a classier and lesser expensive way than using jewelry to show your style especially now with all the colors available to choose from.
Growing up we had white, brown, black, or dark blue for shoe colors. That worked great as long as television broadcasted in black and white. As soon as Dorothy came alone with her ruby slippers girls everywhere were stunned to learn shoes could come in color. This probably had mothers going crazy trying to convince their little girls it was all a camera trick. Somehow, colored shoes had become a symbol of loose women. It is amazing how people think little girls can be so weak. Their entire life shaped by multi-chromatic fabric or accessories. Granted vibrant colors can perk up your attitude and add pizzazz to dull days but to blame social missteps on red leather stilettos is really stretching the imagination. Court cases would need jurors who could not only discover the truth from various angles of testimony but also be fashionistas who would know the effect paisley has on the psyche.
Picture a silent courtroom in the middle of a murder trial with the assailant on the stand trying to defend her actions.
“Please tell the court Ms. Jones what transpired on the day in question,” the defense attorney asked the young woman at center stage.
“I was getting dressed for work that morning. I normally wear dark colored suits with matching pumps.”
“What was different about the morning in question?” the attorney asked.
“My husband had bought me a yellow suit for my birthday. He had been asking me why I had not worn it yet so I decided to wear it to make him happy,” the defendant explained emitting a slight sob. Glancing at the jury, she wipes a tear from her cheek hoping to pull at some heartstrings.
“Go on,” the attorney gently prods.
“I did not have any shoes to go with the outfit and I was running late so I just picked a pair of orange pumps I had in the back of the closet.”
“What was wrong with your regular black shoes?” demanded the attorney as he moved closer to his client. “They were good enough for your regular outfits, correct?”
“Yes,” she said twisting the damp handkerchief in her hands.
“Why then did you wear the other pair? Were you suddenly too good to be ordinary?” pressed her attorney. The questioning seemed harsh but t
he jury needed to see the emotional impact mixing colors has on a woman’s mind.
“I wanted to be pretty. I have seen women in magazines wear colored shoes and I thought I could too. No one ever talks about the power these shoes have over you especially when you mix colors. The yellow and orange mixed together made me woozy. My eyes could not focus; I began to feel clammy. My legs seemed to have a mind of their own. I must have blacked out because the next thing I remember standing over my husband’s body with a smoking gun in my hand.” The tears where visibly streaming down her face dripping onto her lap. The tearstains spread across the fabric slowly dissipating into nothingness.
“Do you regret buying the shoes? Would you ever own another pair of colored shoes after knowing what they could do to you?” gently asked the attorney trying to pull sympathy for the woman out of the jury.
“Never, ever again” the woman quietly sobs. The defense attorney turns toward the jury with a sad shake of his head as he returns to the defense table.
“Let me understand this,” said the prosecutor as he approached the stand. “You are saying the orange shoes paired with the yellow suit forced your body to find a gun and shoot your husband?”
“Yes,” she cried.
“You want the court to believe it had nothing to do with your husband having a girlfriend?”
“No, it didn’t. We had an open marriage. Those damn shoes forced me to shoot him. I never should have brought them into the house.” Turning to the jury with all the emotion she could muster she cried, “You must believe me. I loved my husband. It was those shoes. Colored shoes are evil. Our bodies are not strong enough to fight off the urges they instill in us.” With that, Ms. Jones collapsed in a sobbing heap on the witness stand.
Dinner Should be Enjoyed Naked Page 4