Friday, March 5, 2010

That's it?

I am sensible. Practical. Pragmatic, even. Sometimes too much for my own good.

The other night, my sister-in-law showed me the bikini that she'd just bought for her trip south. I caught a glimpse of the price tag, and I said, "Ummm, I hope you got more than this. Where's the rest of it?" But then, I don't have the sort of lifestyle -or body- in which a bathing suit can pass as "an outfit" whereas she does. Lucky duck. (I'm not
jealous. This is "envy", okay? They're different.)

The next day, I was shopping and I tried on an adorable tank top. Black silk-cotton, so it had a nice muted sheen, but it also had a good body. It was a bit décontracté, with ragged silk organza trim and a slightly messy looking rosette with beading. It had 1920s-styling. It was completely impractical for my work-work-sleep-work-work-sleep existence. But it begged me to own it.

I loved it, and I could picture how stylish it would look with jeans and some black stilettoes. I might actually attain the ever-elusive "hot" in this outfit! If I ever went out, that is.

Oh! Waaaait a minute: owning this top would be a *reason* to go out. Good point, little tank top! You're coming home with me. Sold.

So when the clerk rang up my purchase, my bill was twice what I expected. (Note to self: Do not let the clerk choose articles for you, while you are in your skivvies in the changeroom, for she brings you clothes that you would never try otherwise, but which fit perfectly. And are not on sale.)


I said, "Hmmm. That's a lot more than I wanted to spend..." and, ever-practical, I assessed the other items: a suit with two (!) styles of skirt (the one I wouldn't have tried were it not for the very effective clerk) and a darling spring dresscoat with 1950s styling that I Had. To. Have.
Work clothes. Not play clothes. (See above, regarding my work-life balance. Basically, I wear suits. And pyjamas.)

So I picked up "my" tank top and said, "Could you please take this off the bill? I don't really need it."

She wailed "Noooooo! You don't want it!? But this dress looks so good on you! Did you see it in the grey? It looks so good on brunettes..."

Her wail was evidently some kind of emergency siren, because the other clerk came running.

"That's not a dress," I said.

They both protested, "Oh, yes! And it looks so good on you." In unison.

I'm not that old. (Okay, I am.) But I'm not a prude. (Um, okay. I am.) But this wisp of silk was definitely Not. A. Dress. Not a dress. Not at all. It didn't even approximate a dress. When it grew up, it *might* be a dress, but only with some serious growth hormones.

"This is not a dress," I said. "Where's the rest of it? I was planning to wear it with jeans."

They both laughed. "No! You wear it with tights...". In unison, again. Do they practice this?

"It's a dress?" Incredulous.


Well, $148 is a lot for a tank top that I would never wear. But this was a dress. It's a whole outfit!

"I'll take it."

(Like I said, I'm practical.)

p.s. If you see me wearing it, can you tell me I look hot? Thanks.

1 comment:

  1. Ms Moran,
    I always think you look hot.
    Even all sweaty on the ulty field.
    - A