Four Dresses
Liz Shannon Miller
Blood runs down my leg as the phone rings; I don't bother holding back a curse. A month ago, this would have been easy -- I'd be wearing my traditional third date outfit of jeans and a nice top; I wouldn't be running fifteen minutes late and dying a slow death from razor burn. But a month ago, I wasn't this girl. This girl with all these dresses.
A month ago, I could comfortably assemble an outfit for any occasion out of my wardrobe, but there wasn't a heavy emphasis on skirts and frocks. A hundred years of feminists had fought for my right to pockets and warm ankles, and I was pretty happy with the shape of my ass. Pants and I got along great.
But then there was the wedding. Not mine. My cousin Audrey's. And it was going to be outdoors in September, and my mother had opinions about my choice of wardrobe. Specifically:
"I was thinking that a skirt could be nice."
"I was actually going to-"
"Sweetheart, you are attending a wedding."
"I know."
"You cannot wear black pants to a wedding."
"Why not?"
"Because you can't wear black to a wedding."
"So I could wear white pants?"
"No."
"Why not? They're not black."
"It's going to be after Labor Day-"
"Yes. Labor Day 2007. And we're about 3000 miles away from Martha's Vineyard or wherever the hell that tradition got started."
"Sammie, I will not have you embarrass me at this wedding."
"How will I embarrass you? You won't even be there!"
"You're representing the family, and that means that your Aunt Leslie will be on the phone the next day about how I never got around to teaching my daughter the basics of how to dress..."
Twenty-four years old. I am twenty-four years old, I live a thousand miles from home, and I am not a child.
But I still went shopping for a dress.
Not to please my mother, of course. Just to keep her quiet. And if I lucked out, I'd find something at a store with easy-to-hide tags and a generous return policy. Plenty of those around Los Angeles, made to accommodate the poor and fabulous in need of disposable fashion.
So I went to one of those stores, in search of a dress that would ward off any potential family drama.
I bought four of them.
It wasn't my fault, I will state for the record. I blame it on some strange magic of the afternoon, one of those surreal moments of body space/time when everything fit. EVERYTHING. Didn't matter what size, what style. Each dress slid on like it was made for me, zipped up without a problem.
I called Mom from the dressing room, while jumping up and down to confirm that yes, this strapless black-and-white number wouldn't go sliding off at the slightest provocation. "They all fit, Mom. ALL OF THEM."
"Are they all nice?"
"Well, yes."
"So go ahead and get them."
"But what will I do with all these dresses?"
"Wear them, of course."
"Wear them why?"
"I don't know. You never know when you'll meet a nice boy."
So here I am, with four new dresses I can barely afford. And here I am, with Webb.
Webb just moved to town from Michigan's upper peninsula, to pursue his dream of not freezing to death this winter. He's an engineer -- he reads books -- he does carpentry work as a hobby! All very exciting, in this town of people who focus on becoming thinner and more important than they currently are. All so fresh and new.
He was at the wedding because he was an old high school friend of Audrey's husband-to-be -- we were the only two single twenty-somethings present. That's why we started talking, but not why we kept the connection going right through dinner and onto the dance floor. We laughed and spun and kept catching each other's eye; even when we drifted to other conversations or other dance circles, we'd eventually come back to each other again.
And right after he took my hand and dragged me all-too-willingly into that dark nook by the kitchen, right before he kissed me -- well. He ran his hand down my side, so very nearly all the way down, and said:
"Nice dress."
So now he's waiting in his car, waiting for me to finish shaving my legs on a Tuesday night. Because -- I'm wearing another dress.
I don't know how to wear dresses, really. How to move, how to accessorize. Is the skirt too short? Is the skirt too long? What jackets work best? What shoes? Oh, shoes are the worst. You can't get away with sneakers in a dress, even cute fun ones. So it's heels or sandals, and constantly being afraid of tripping, and constantly being afraid of my skirt flipping up when I do.
I haven't tripped yet. But I'm not exactly an optimist. This is our third date, after all. That's always the turning point.
It's especially going to be the turning point for us. Because tonight I am wearing the last of the four dresses, which means that our next date? That's when I either admit to this great guy, who's cool and hot and every other positive adjective my hormone-addled mind knows, that I've been living a lie, that I am in reality a torn-knee frayed-cuffs Converse-worshipping tomboy. Or I go shopping again.
And man, I'd much rather do the latter. But while I love my job, dog-walking isn't exactly a cow made of cash. Sooner or later, the truth will out.
It's not that I think he'll reject me. I just like this idea he has of me, this glamorous city lady with her fabulous wardrobe and refined style. It's the closest I've ever come to feeling like a character on Sex and the City -- which is something I didn't even know I cared about until it finally happened to me. Not that I need to feel like a jaded 30-something New Yorker. I just like feeling... Well. Pretty.
These are the thoughts I think, as I finish dabbing blood off, as I finish dabbing eyeshadow on. I think about all the things he must think I am. I think about how sad I'm going to be, when I finally disappoint him.
I run down to the car. Only ten minutes behind schedule. "Sorry," I say with a kiss and no other explanation.
He doesn't care, though, eyes sweeping up and down once, quick, a glance confirming that the skies are sunny and blue. "No sweat," he says. "You look great."
"I'm not too dressed up?" I ask.
"Nah. You're perfect."
I snort, completely unconsciously, but it gets me a look from him. "You think I'm lying?"
"No, sorry. I'm just, um. Looking forward to dinner."
He nods. "Sure."
And later, we're back on my street. And it's magic, the way there's a parking space in front of my apartment, right when I'm trying to figure out if this is really the time for him to come up. I like it when the universe answers my questions for me.
He takes my hand as we walk up to the door, lacing his fingers with mine like he doesn't think I'll notice. I lean into the grasp, press my shoulder against his. I can't help but smell his cologne.
It wasn't a flawless evening. Date 2 had set a pretty high standard, climaxing when we left the movie to find a blues quartet set up in the mall patio, and he grabbed my hand without warning, twirling me out and back in again. For Date 3, we bumbled into an Italian restaurant that was having a really bad day -- crap service and worse food. But while waiting an hour for cold, overcooked pasta, we talked. Really talked. And it was nice to know that yes, even beyond the sweet grey eyes and sharp dance moves, this guy had something. Was someone.
Keys in the lock, purse on the hallway table, and me muttering something to the effect of "what was I talking about?" His arms slip around my waist, his lips press against my neck. "The X-Files," he whispers in my ear.
I turn around, confused by his choice of sweet nothing. "Sorry?"
"You were going to show me that episode of The X-Files. The scariest hour of television I'll ever see?"
I gasp out a chuckle. "Yeah. That's right. The X-Files."
He steps a little bit closer to me, hips making contact. "You have it on tape?"
"Yes. Tape. VHS tape. I'll go get it."
I let go of him, moving towards my bedroom. And he follows me, with that look on his face-
I put my hands on his shoulders, taking one second to enjoy the soft jersey material of his shirt before pushing him back the slightest bit. "Just wait here a sec."
He looks a bit unsure, a little put off. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. You're fine, I'm fine. Just stay right here while I... I..."
Fun fact about me: when I choke, when I can't remember the next line of dialogue that will move the scene forward, I end up spitting out a line from whatever late-night television program I fell asleep watching the night before. Which normally isn't too embarrassing, except that last night I was watching a movie on Cinemax and when I woke up at 2 AM, just enough to find the remote and turn the TV off, the last thing I heard was-
"Let me slip into something more comfortable."
He blinks. "Okay."
I run into my room, shutting the door.
Some girls might call their best BFFs for ideas as to what actually is "something more comfortable." But the fact of the matter is the last person to give me advice on my wardrobe... was kind of right.
So I make the call. "Mom. MOM."
"Hey, sweetheart. Why are you calling?"
"I met a nice boy. He's waiting in my living room. I told him I was changing into something else. What do I wear?"
Mom pauses, and I hear her voice catch a little. "You're asking me?"
"Um. Yes. You're not busy or anything, are you? I just thought you might-"
"No, no. I'm... I'm flattered, is all."
"Why are you flattered?"
"Well, sometimes I get the feeling that you don't exactly care what I think."
Huh. All my life, I've wanted my mother to treat me like an adult. Maybe I should have started by returning the favor.
Oh shit, he's WAITING ON ME. Again. And probably going through my stuff.
"I do care, Mom. Especially if you can think QUICKLY about what I should be putting on."
"What are you wearing now?"
I sigh just a little. "One of those dresses I bought. The last one, in fact."
"And you two are about to-"
"Watch TV."
"JUST watch TV?"
I try not to laugh, but a little bit of a giggle slips out -- and she giggles too, and there I am, laughing with my mother.
It fades just quickly enough. "Mom, this guy... He's only ever seen me in dresses. I don't want him to know- I don't want him to know what kind of girl I really am."
"He's going to figure that out sooner or later, if he's a nice boy."
"Yeah, but maybe this is his type. The glamorous dress-wearing girl, who cares about heels and purses and style. I'd at least like to delay the big reveal."
"What are you really afraid of, Sammie? Revealing what you're not? Revealing who you are?"
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"You might be overanalyzing this situation, is what I mean. Think about it, sweetie. Do you really believe that he imagines you watching TV in a dress and heels?"
I try and find a fault in her logic. I fail.
I'm already shucking off the dress. "Tell me, Mom. What should I wear?"
"Something that's comfortable..."
Off comes the strapless bra.
"... That's what he's expecting, after all."
On comes the strappy tank top.
"Yeah."
"Does this nice boy of yours have a name? And is he by any chance the guy who Aunt Leslie said was getting pretty hands-y by the end of the night?"
"Let me call you tomorrow, Mom, and I'll tell you if there's anything worth telling."
"You'll call?"
"Yeah," I say, and it's a promise I look forward to keeping.
It takes less time for me to locate the tape than it did my jeans, but that's because the tape is not part of the mess that is my closet floor. I zip up and straighten and take two deep breaths.
"This may be archaic technology," I call out as I re-enter the living room, "But it has vintage 1996 commercials that I think you'll find very entertaining."
He looks up from perusing my bookcase, hopefully before he came to that one Sweet Valley High novel I haven't gotten rid of. He takes in the image that is me, then nods with a little smile.
I have absolutely no idea what that means. But once you've jumped off the cliff, you can't exactly take it back. So I slap the tape in the VCR and hop on the couch, patting the space beside me.
He joins me, but slightly closer than I'd thought he would. And before I can pick up the remote, he's grabbed my legs, swinging me around to drag me into his lap.
We start kissing, the slow sort of kissing, where every touch is a moment to savor. I smile against his lips. "I'm guessing you're not interested in watching TV right now."
One hand slides up my back, underneath the tank top. His fingers keep shifting, keep finding new inches of me to touch. He is so warm.
"It's just nice to see you...” he says.
"Yeah?" I say, my hands also expressing an interest in the skin his shirt hides.
"See you... Let your hair down a little."
"I didn't do anything to my hair."
"Yeah. I know."
I kiss him again. And again. And again... Until we're both comfortable as can be.
Say this for wearing dresses. I know my legs are shaved.