Pretty in Pink

From the darkness and depths of the office closet, E managed to pull out my prom dress tucked away in it's garment bag coffin. It took her about one second to beg me to try it on and even less time for me to jump out of the chair from across the room and agree to it. Unzipping the bag felt like Christmas, and when my eyes fell on my sweet dress in daylight, I immediately drew its whippy white chiffon layers close to my cheeks, inhaling the hint of Rose Oil from The Body Shop. I could almost hear The Cranberries singing Linger.

Like seeing a very old friend again, I held it close, my fingers tracing the candy-sized crimson roses dotting the glacial silk bodice. It was a 16-year-old girl from Wisconsin's dream of the ultimate romantic dress. While listening to The Cure, I had spent months pouring over wedding magazines and images of Grace Kelly in her wedding gown in an attempt to find the prom gown of my dreams.

Unsatisfied with what was available at the malls, I ended up buying yards of silk and chiffon myself and sketching out a design with a local seamstress. We had fittings and discussions and planning that lasted months. I remember when when the big fitting day arrived, I tried it on in her fabric-cramped sewing area surrounded by behemoth clouds of tulle from wedding gowns that scratched my bare back when I squeezed by.

It was all worth it when I felt the glossy silk slink down my skin, and when I emerged from the jungle of wedding gowns and saw myself in the mirror, it was everything that I had hoped it would be. I couldn't stop spinning in it in front of the tiny mirror.

Even though I lived and breathed the planning of that dress, its experience was a pitiful fraction of what it was designed to do. Sure, it swayed a little to Stairway to Heaven but it spent too much time held back in the bathroom and whispering in huddles.

Putting it on this time over a decade later, required a lot more groaning, maneuvering and reassuringly smiling to four little eyes brimming with hope that mommy would fit in that dress after all. I prayed and I prayed hard for God to please let me fit into the dress so I could show my little girls that I too once dressed like a princess.


After what I can only attribute to holy intervention and sheer perseverance, I managed to get the dress on, although it did not fit as well as it did that original day. Love handles and baby fat peeked out and lumped like roaring rapids under what was intended to be silk sewn smooth as ice. But with my girls looking up at me, like I was Cinderella herself, I ignored the bulging zipper and snapping buttons and started to twirl and twirl, and twirl. Preschool girls make much better dancing partners than high school boys as they could truly appreciate all those dreamy layers as they tickled their cheeks when I spun. My 16 year-old body (along with my 16-year-old insecurities) is long gone but the glory of dancing and twirling in a gown with my little girls truly made me feel like the prom queen. My dress was created to dance like that. And my little girls taught me that I was too, imperfections and all.

After 20 minutes of this we collapsed together, the three of us laughing and giggling out of breath, the last of the layers slowly rippling out of tiny hands. Strewn on the carpet for a moment I prayed that this is one of those memories of me that they will always carry with them.