This last year, an obsession took hold of me with its deep vermilion claws. I had to wear a red dress to this party. The year before, I wore a gold dress I bought for literally eleven dollars. It looked like crap on the hanger because the dress had no shape, but I knew its potential. Obviously, it had not been flashy enough if I had a hankering to wear red. Not just any red. I wanted to wear red satin.
I looked everywhere. Sadly, shopping is not one of the charms of this part of the island. But I had been infected by this bug and I had had my eye out for a dress for most of last year. Actually, it was hard to find any at all. It seems islanders don’t wear dresses (or pantyhose). The date for the party was coming up fast, and I hadn’t found anything. I ended up resorting trying on everything in my closet hoping to figure out what to wear. I had a few options, because my closet is awesome, but none of my options were the red I had been fantasizing about. Three days before the party, I was at a Salvation Army going through their dresses.
I found something. It was $13. I’m not even sure if it was satin. Like I said, it’s wrapping paper so the satin look was all I was going for. It could have been made of paper for all I cared. I didn’t even bother to try it on, it was so obviously going to fit.
I went up to the register to pay, and as I was standing there, waiting for my turn, something about the way the fabric twisted in my fingers touched a nerve, brought me back to another place and another time. It was a familiar feeling, and suddenly I knew that my dress was not a dress.
It was a nightgown.
I let the thing unfurl and held it up. That was why the fabric was in such incredible condition. It was a nightgown circa 1997 and it had been mushed in the back of someone’s drawer for twenty years. The reason it wasn’t with the nightgowns in the thrift store was because nightgowns are not made like that anymore. Nowadays your nightgown is see-through, or it doesn’t cover your thighs, or it’s cotton and stored with your period panties. This red satin number was a classy piece of opaque beauty and I saw then that the neckline was extraordinarily low, because… you aren’t supposed to wear a bra with it.
The teller called me forward and I bought the thing anyway. I took it home and ironed it, found that it had a rip in it, which I immediately, expertly repaired. Then I tried it on. The neckline was ghastly, but I’m not incompetent when it comes to altering clothing, so I brought it up a few inches. Then I styled the thing. I got a black belt, a black shrug, black stockings with a rose pattern (they had holes in them in at least four places, but I treat my pantyhose like we’re in London in 1943, so we’re good), black high heels with the criss-crossy straps, red stone necklace where the stones are carved into leaves, and red and black feathers for my hair clip.
Then I showed my husband what I planned to wear. I told him very specifically, “Now honey, some of the ladies at the party might be sassy enough to know this is a nightgown and say something about it. Are you going to be able to deal with the fallout of my wearing this highly inappropriate outfit to your special party?”
He shot me a weird look and quipped, “I’ll just tell them you’re already dressed for the after-party.” Then seeing my smile, he continued, “Really, you’re being crazy. You are covered from elbow to calf. No one is going to make the connection.”
Yes, nothing weird happened, except I have something to say about wearing your nightgown to a party. It’s awesome. Nightgowns do not have the same binding stitches and seams of normal party clothes. My belt gave the garment shape it wouldn’t have had otherwise and I was supremely comfortable all night. I tucked some slippers in the car for the ride home. I would be driving, so I tossed the heels and put on my slippers. I was very ready for bed by the time I got home.
BONUS STORY!
I have a shiny, strapless iron grey ball gown in my closet. I wear it to the opera if you’re wondering where I would wear something like that. Regarding this particular dress, I had this fantasy of wearing a white, short sleeved, collared, button-up-the-front shirt under it. A few weeks ago, I was in the mall and in a ladies clothing store. The sales rep approached me and asked me what I was looking for. I said my fantasy shirt and the lady said, “I’m sorry, we don’t have anything with short sleeves. We do have one with long sleeves if you’d be interested in trying that on.”
I said no. I wanted short sleeves, because if you know anything about getting laced into a strapless dress, you'll know, that's warm. You're not going to want long sleeves. I did not explain this, but instead moved to leave when her coworker piped up, “You’re not going to be able to find anything like that with short sleeves here in the mall. You should buy the one we’re selling and take it to a tailor to get it altered.”
I scoffed pleasantly and said I did not want that. I know a bit about altering clothes and do you know what’s the hardest (at least for me)? Sleeves? Do you know how much difficulty everyone is spared when a garment lacks sleeves?
But the Lord gave us sleeves! He gave us sleeves so we would not sunburn our shoulders! He gave us sleeves so we didn’t have to worry about shaving our armpits daily! He gave us sleeves so we wouldn’t have to beg for the coats of creepy men we don’t want to owe anything to! And so that the nice men wouldn’t be forced to chivalrously remove their coats and then freeze or forfeit their niceness! He gave us sleeves so we would have to think harder, think about curves and how to sew a tuck, so we would be resourceful and brave when it came to cutting expensive fabric! He made us independent and bold… with two sleeves, because asymmetrical blouses make zero sense. Just saying.
Back to the store, the saleslady kept saying that the only way I could get what I wanted in a short sleeve was to buy their shirt and have it altered, expensively at a tailors.
I snagged my shopping buddy and moved for the exit, as I casually explained that I would not hire a tailor. I knew enough about altering clothing that it would be better for me to simply recut one of my husband’s old shirts rather than do what she suggested.
And the sales girl literally said with a hostile snoot, “Good for you. There’s a Tip Top down the hall. I’m sure they can help you.”
I really could not get out of that store fast enough.
My friend and I had to shake off the icky all the way to the next store, where I found a white, short sleeved, collared, button-up-the-front shirt in my size for $5. For the record, it was not a Tip Top and it looks exactly how I imagined it would look under my dress.
P.S. Sorry about the lack of pictures. You're going to need to use your imagination.
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