The Dress

I bought a dress.

I hope it’s the right dress.

I didn’t try it on in the store. I am afraid of dressing room lighting. I don’t need to see the truth that brightly.

It might be a little too black, a little too conservative, a little too short. It has a hood. It shows no neck. Tattoos and jewelry are hidden. As far as the dates will know, I am a blank canvas.

In a moment of desperation, I also bought a rolling backpack suitcase.
I had visions of my bags, stuffed tightly, bursting open and me, dog in tow, hair askew, crumpled papers flying, limping through security with the Department of Homeland Security salivating over the opportunity to freedom fondle me in my little black date dress.

So, I bought the suitcase and packed the dress. Two situations averted.

orange suitcase; little black dress

I tried the dress on yesterday and promptly cleaned my bathroom in said dress. I hauled two garbage bags of clothing up the hill to the church donation center in same dress. I tidied up the kitchen, did the laundry, shopped for airport snacks, bought the above luggage and drank coffee. In the dress.

At night, at the Temple Bar, I convinced a patron that I was 57. In the same dress.

I had four olives. My friend, an ex, helped me out with the other two. I don’t know about the other guy.

“She’s a lightweight,” my friend pointed out as I almost fell off my stool.

“He’s had a lot of drinks,” the bartender explained about the patron who believed I was 57.

“This is my date dress,” I said, wishing my friend had left me the last olive.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he responded, pushing a bowl of bar nuts my way.

The dress is ex-boyfriend approved.


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