"There are two kinds of women. You're either a Jackie Kennedy or a Marilyn Monroe. Are you a Jackie or a Marilyn?" - Mad Men, season 2
Warren and I have a date! An actual, get-out-of-town date! Okay, it's a wedding, but it counts because 1) we're going to be out of the house; and, 2) we won't eat dinner til AFTER 7 p.m. And because the people getting married are Republicans with MBAs, it's going to be a fancy shindig. How fancy? Well, when I texted the bride with an SOS plea for help with the dress code, the response was, "Whatever u feel comfortable in. Most r wearing knee or below dresses." Um, whatever *I* feel comfortable in?!?! Lady, I have two kids, two cats and a full-time job - what I feel most comfortable in is a coma.
Since I don't think anyone wants to see me in my sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, I went shopping. This time I went upscale, choosing the designer consignment shoppe over the charity thrift store. Yeah, I know, the prices are at least twice what I'd pay at the thrift, but cost isn't the only consideration. While I enjoy big puffed leg-o-mutton sleeves and asymmetrical hemlines as much as the next girl, I don't think I want to look like a refugee from the Prom, circa 1987, yanno? Anyway, I tried on everything black and cocktail-ish the store had in sizes 2 through 10, and could the dress designers just get it together and decide what each size is for once and for all?! Is it really possible for me to swim in one maker's size two and not be able to zip another's size 8?? (Answer: Yes. Yes, it is.) I also owe a HUGE debt of gratitude to Real Housewives of Orange County's season finale because, after seeing the rather zaftig one in a low-backed number that failed to hide her back fat, I quickly realized that yes, everyone ELSE does too see it and anything cut down to my waist from the rear view was immediately out of the running.
After much wriggling and zipping and buttoning and tying, I narrowed it down to two candidates. Candidate One was a slinky beaded number that did amazing things for my form. It turned my childbearing hips and slight paunch into a va-va-voom hourglass figure. The girls were positioned front and center for all to admire. The back fat was safely concealed (think "sausage casing"). I did not have what I would call full range of motion for such picayune considerations as, say, walking and sitting down, but when you look that good, who needs 'em???
Candidate Two was a far more sedate number. The sleeveless tank-cut top had a sweetheart neckline. The bodice skimmed over rather than reconstructed my figure, ending at a slightly dropped waist. It had a knife-pleated skirt topped with a sash lined in contrasting peridot satin. As with the other dress, the back fat was safely hidden away (unfortunately it is not nearly as easy to camouflage my abundant upper arms, more's the pity). Unlike the former, I could actually move somewhat normally, aside from
having to remember I was wearing a dress and not my usual sweats. In short, where the first frock trumpeted "nightclub and champagne," this one murmured an understated "country club and pearls".
It came down to decision time, and I'm sure you can guess which dress I wanted: I wanted the sexy number. Hey, given the fact that I get to dress up and go out once per decade on average, by the time my next opportunity rolls around, I'll probably be wearing caftans a la Bea Arthur as Maude. All y'all know I have a near-obsession with attaining MILF status just once in this lifetime before I die, and this is a golden opportunity! Or it was... at least, until I tried zipping up the sexy beaded Marilyn dress all the way. And then, Houston, we had a problem - namely that my rib cage is so damn wide, I couldn't get the zipper up the last three inches. (Yeah, it is too my rib cage is wide. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a pudgenheimer when that's the issue, but remember how I said already that it fit my chubby midsection? Seriously, I have a freakishly large rib cage for one of my [lack of] stature. I wore my mom's wedding dress and I had to have the entire top remade because I was so much wider than she was, and my mom's four inches taller than I am. So shut it.) Trust me, I tried. I wriggled. I wiggled. I tried the pull-slo-oo-o-oo--oooo-owly approach, and I tried the zipitallatonce approach, and nuttin' worked on that bastard. Despite my best efforts and prayers (yeah, there are no atheists in dressing rooms, either), it soon became abundantly clear that this lovely little Marilyn-at-the-Garden number was not fated to be mine. I'm sure one of the myriad local Pilates moms will spot it traveling between her personal training session and her no-fat skim latte break, and it will fit like a friggin' dream. Yay for her.
So now I'm stuck with the tasteful little black dress, which will be fine, I know. I'll look very ... sweet. And demure. And appropriate. I will look like the girl you take home to Mother, when what I want to look like is the kind of woman your mother warned you about (and not in a People of Wal-Mart kind of way, either). In short, no one is going to walk up to me in the Oval Room and ask me to sing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President," although they might ask me to run for Student Senate.
I told Warren later that night, "I had a choice between being Jackie Kennedy or Marilyn Monroe for this wedding, and I have to be Jackie Kennedy."
"Oh," he said. Then after a moment, wistfully: "That's too bad. I would have liked taking Marilyn Monroe."
P.S. On the plus side, I only spent twenty-five smackers on this garment! And, as a consolation prize, I found these shoes dirt cheap at the mall! Aren't they wicked cute? I promise to post pictures after the festivities.