White Dress Bod

Some women look wonderful in a white dress. Their skin is flawless, their curves appear in just the right places and everything seems to fit seamlessly into that perfect white package.

And then there are the rest of us.

For the most part, this doesn’t cause an emotional toll. It’s just hard to be around White Dress Bod people.

Me: That dress looks great on you.

White Dress Bod Friend: Thanks. You can borrow it anytime.

Me: No thanks.

White Dress Bod Friend: Why not?

I shake my head.

It’s like veterans trying to explain war to civilians.

Last week, I got invited to a Black Tie/White Dress event.

After some sobbing and mild hysteria, I headed to the mall.

I gave myself a pep talk on the way. 

Today is your day!

You’re off to find dresses, whiter than white.

You’ll be beautiful, stunning,

They’ll fit you just right!

No frets, No fears,

No time for tears,

Your white dress is waiting,

Today is your day!

My Dr. Seuss themed speech was so inspiring that I practically skipped into Macy’s and headed for the dress department. 

I turned the corner and immediately encountered the 6 foot, sixteen inch waist mannequin, clad in a sleek white dress.

I fought my natural urge to rip off one of her plastic limbs and beat her to death with it.

Instead, I picked out a slew of white dresses, reassuring myself that one of these was bound to be a winner.

Forget the fact that the previous 800 white dresses I’ve tried on in my life looked horrendous.

Today was different.

Once in the dressing room, I discarded my t-shirt and jeans and took the first white dress off the hanger.

After unzipping the dress, I tentatively stepped one foot at a time into the garment.

So far, so good.

When both feet were in, I pulled the material up. It fit nicely around my middle. Not too snug.

My heart raced.

Today is the day!

I slipped the right, then left arm in.

At this point, the dress still resembled the one on the mannequin.

I sucked in a little, then a lot, just to give the dress a fighting chance.

I closed my eyes as I ran my fingers over the material.

It felt smooth.

This IS the day!

I took one more deep breath, and…

This was NOT the day!

It was horrifying, but like a train wreck, I couldn’t look away!

What happened to the dress on the mannequin? And where did all these lumps come from? And how many pounds does the mirror add?

I brushed away a rejection tear.

They really should stock dressing rooms with tissues, or Prozac, or better yet, inspirational speakers.

Doggone it, you’re good enough, you’re smart enough, and people like you!

Maybe I just need to look at it from a different angle.

I turned sideways.

Not bad for a woman in her second trimester. 

Maybe from the back?

Hello, back fat.

I turned back around, praying for a miraculous improvement.

If only it was a vegetable themed party, I could go as mashed potatoes.

The next 12 dresses were equally horrifying.

 I fled the white carnage in the dressing room and ran through the store, once again, coming face to face with my nemesis.

The smooth white dress, the smug smile, it was more than I could take.

The rest was just a blur of flailing plastic limbs and verbal assaults.

That mannequin really had a mouth on her.

So here I sit in a county booking room, facing Penal Code charges 594, and waiting for my husband to post bail.

My hands are cuffed and like a common criminal, I’m wearing the orange jumpsuit.

 “It’s just that I had tried on so many white dresses,” I tell the woman officer who leads me out of the room.

She nods.

She understands.

Walking down the hall, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and it hits me.

I look incredible in orange!