Playing Dress-up

 “That dress looks good on you!” the salesperson at White House Black Market says. She steps into me. “And I love your perfume!”

I smile and give this dress another look. My goal today is simple, really. I don’t want to look like my grandmother on her way to a church picnic.

I’m not sure I ever saw my grandmother in a pair of pants. She cooked in dresses, she worked in her garden in dresses, and she sat on her front porch in dresses.

I wonder if my grandchildren have ever seen me in a dress. I doubt they would want to. My varicose veins, odd bulges, and pale white skin beg to be hidden.

Searching for a clean pair of pants earlier today, I realized I don’t have a dress I could wear to a cocktail party. Not that I’ve been invited to any. I decide to be ready in case I am.

And, at my age, I always need something that can double as a funeral dress.

Ignoring work piled on my desk, I grabbed my purse and raced to the mall. I find hippie dresses, tiny dresses more suited to Barbie, old lady dresses, and dresses too snug in all the wrong places.

Is it too early for vodka?  

I wandered into White House Black Market. My daughter-in-law shops there and she always looks cute. Of course, the fact that she’s 30 years younger probably has something to do with that.

I tried on a blue shimmery concoction that made me look like an aging, drunk fairy godmother. A white one showed all my bulges and rolls.

 Then the black one caught my eye. It might make a good funeral dress.

I slipped it over my head, and it settled in all the right places. Just a hint of decolletage that’s not too crinkly. Sleeves that cover flabby arms. It even makes me look like I still have a waist.

A second clerk walks over. “That dress is one of my favorites!”

I twirl for them.

“Doesn’t she smell nice?” the first clerk says.

The second clerk nods, sniffing in my direction. “I know!” she says. “You smell just like my mother!”

“That’s it! Just like my mom!” the first salesperson says.

My shoulders slump. I will never wear this lotion again. Then I throw up my head and force back my shoulders.

At least I don’t smell like their grandmother.