You are currently browsing the daily archive for April 8th, 2008.
I’m in the market for a dress. A nice dress; a ball gown, to be exact. I spent the better part of a late lunch looking for the same, because really, who says lunch has to be spent eating? It’s all too common for me to spend an hour shopping, which is detrimental on so many levels. But moving right along.
Today was our publication day, which meant I was busy busy busy and couldn’t get away till circa 3pm. It also meant I was wearing jeans. There once was a time when sitting and staring at proof pages inspired adorable suits and totally urban chic professional attire. That day, my friends, has passed, and today I was just so not feeling it.
I suppose it would be a common reaction, to think that a young woman in jeans shopping in the “special occasion” section at 3pm on a Tuesday would be looking for a prom dress. But really? I commonly get carded, but do I look like I’d produce a learner’s permit?
One hundred percent—we’re talking 4 for 4—of the helpful salespeople in the shops I visited today asked me a variation of “Where do you go to school,” “Will this be your first prom,” and “When’s your prom, sweetheart?”
That last one really got me. First, I am not a perky twenty-year-old clerk’s sweetheart. Second, I think I was older than she was. I lied to the others—not because I particularly cared to be cast as a high schooler, but because I just didn’t want to make them feel bad. I’d say something simple like, oh, in May; to one I gave the name of a Catholic high school I knew was nearby. I know that seems pathetic; I’m just like that.
Ms. Perky sweetheart got the true tale, however. Maybe because it had been a long day, maybe because I was (I’ll admit) a little bit intimidated by how perfectly put together she was, or maybe because I was just fed up with the whole scene, I told her in (I’m sorry to say) a rather unfriendly tone that no, actually, my prom had been circa 1999, and I was in fact looking for a dress for the White House Correspondent’s Dinner. I felt like adding “Because I’m an award-winning journalist, biatch,” but that was too over the top for my style. It is true, though, that by happy fortune, I’ve come into a pair of tickets (squee!). I want to be sure the final ensemble does NOT resemble a prom dress; clearly, I told her, it’ll need to make me look older.
To her credit, despite my initial rudeness, she turned out to be quite helpful, and I tried on a few … but nothing really stuck. The search goes on. This time, thank all goodness, without the teenage angst.
