After months of searching I may have finally found satisfaction.
Other people may pass it over as nothing special, but it is my New Favourite. I smile a secret smile right now just picturing it hanging up in my room, wedged carfefully between my scratchy-purple dress and my appley-cotton sundress.
I was actually in Miss Wong looking for a belt. I found new stock on their $100-and-less sale display, which further lured me in. Then I got sucked into the non-sale area of the shop. Sneaky of them. They put all the red clothes together on a rack at the back, like a flittery toreodor's cape in a bull-fight.
It was red. The perfect shade of red. Not quite cherry and not quite orange. The shade Marilyn Monroe wore on her lips. Red-red. My favourite colour in the box.
I touched it. It was shiny (but not satin shiny, polyester shiny and machine-washable) and silky to touch. A muted crushed, nicely draping kinda shiny. It was nipped in at the waist and came just above the knee (a respectable length while still being 'now' and 'hip'). It had a demure rounded scoop neck that showed decolletage, but not cleavage, and short sleeves that were slightly ruched, coming out from the waist like mini bat-wings. It was essentially loose feeling, but accentuated the right bits on me.
I added to my pile of try-ons, just to see what it would look like on. Not intending to really buy it. Just curious. How naive.
It had seduced me but I thought I could still 'just cuddle' without having to go all the way.
Then I tried it on. It slid on perfectly. I didn't even have to suck anything in or adjust any bra straps or imagine how much better it would look with a little layering or a belt. It was perfect just as it was.
It said, 'This is Kate. Kate is red. Red is sexy. This is the dress to wear on a date. You need to go on a date.'
So I bought it.
I didn't need it. I bought two dresses that were actually on sale last week, both of which I like. But they are imperfect. They need accessories and pinching in and adjusting and leggings and belts. They are needy dresses.
This dress makes me happy. It doesn't need anything else. I could wear it with no accessories at all. It is whole.
I don't know where I will actually wear it. I don't really do cocktails and night-life anymore. Everybody else has mortages. I could wear a cardie and flats and smuggle it into work or a casual dinner in town. I don't really want to taint it with ordinary experiences though. It is not meant to be constrained in the domestic sphere. It is a femme fatale dress . It wants freedom and excitement and venetian blinds.
It might be that nobody else likes my dress. They might think it's too plain or too something else. They may not even notice it. But I'll know they're wrong.
I think the best kind of dating is when you like the person you're with and you don't care what anyone else thinks. You like it if nobody else thinks they're hot - less competition for you. Their loss. At least he's with someone who appreciates him.
And so it is with my dress. My Perfect Dress.
For now.
Next season is another story.
(I must confess I have an almost addictive obsession for buying dresses at the moment - I should do some kind of photo montage of all the dresses I've bought since about last November. It's scary. It probably needs to stop - and having found The Perfect Dress I can now end my epic search and perhaps move on to shoes. My feet have been sorely neglected.)
Other people may pass it over as nothing special, but it is my New Favourite. I smile a secret smile right now just picturing it hanging up in my room, wedged carfefully between my scratchy-purple dress and my appley-cotton sundress.
I was actually in Miss Wong looking for a belt. I found new stock on their $100-and-less sale display, which further lured me in. Then I got sucked into the non-sale area of the shop. Sneaky of them. They put all the red clothes together on a rack at the back, like a flittery toreodor's cape in a bull-fight.
It was red. The perfect shade of red. Not quite cherry and not quite orange. The shade Marilyn Monroe wore on her lips. Red-red. My favourite colour in the box.
I touched it. It was shiny (but not satin shiny, polyester shiny and machine-washable) and silky to touch. A muted crushed, nicely draping kinda shiny. It was nipped in at the waist and came just above the knee (a respectable length while still being 'now' and 'hip'). It had a demure rounded scoop neck that showed decolletage, but not cleavage, and short sleeves that were slightly ruched, coming out from the waist like mini bat-wings. It was essentially loose feeling, but accentuated the right bits on me.
I added to my pile of try-ons, just to see what it would look like on. Not intending to really buy it. Just curious. How naive.
It had seduced me but I thought I could still 'just cuddle' without having to go all the way.
Then I tried it on. It slid on perfectly. I didn't even have to suck anything in or adjust any bra straps or imagine how much better it would look with a little layering or a belt. It was perfect just as it was.
It said, 'This is Kate. Kate is red. Red is sexy. This is the dress to wear on a date. You need to go on a date.'
So I bought it.
I didn't need it. I bought two dresses that were actually on sale last week, both of which I like. But they are imperfect. They need accessories and pinching in and adjusting and leggings and belts. They are needy dresses.
This dress makes me happy. It doesn't need anything else. I could wear it with no accessories at all. It is whole.
I don't know where I will actually wear it. I don't really do cocktails and night-life anymore. Everybody else has mortages. I could wear a cardie and flats and smuggle it into work or a casual dinner in town. I don't really want to taint it with ordinary experiences though. It is not meant to be constrained in the domestic sphere. It is a femme fatale dress . It wants freedom and excitement and venetian blinds.
It might be that nobody else likes my dress. They might think it's too plain or too something else. They may not even notice it. But I'll know they're wrong.
I think the best kind of dating is when you like the person you're with and you don't care what anyone else thinks. You like it if nobody else thinks they're hot - less competition for you. Their loss. At least he's with someone who appreciates him.
And so it is with my dress. My Perfect Dress.
For now.
Next season is another story.
(I must confess I have an almost addictive obsession for buying dresses at the moment - I should do some kind of photo montage of all the dresses I've bought since about last November. It's scary. It probably needs to stop - and having found The Perfect Dress I can now end my epic search and perhaps move on to shoes. My feet have been sorely neglected.)
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