Sequins and Spanx

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

“It’s a curse being a woman,” I thought as I opened a few recent invites to fall nuptials. Out of envelopes erupted my vortex of analysis paralysis to find the right frock. I thought my closet had been streamlined to wardrobe perfection. Like Goldilocks, I wanted a dress that was just right. But three cranky bears showed up instead: my disposition, my family, and the Citibank bill. 

Taller women have it easy. They meander through malls, browse carefree online, pluck a hangar here and there, and easily find the right dress, the appropriate ensemble, the perfect fit. Some of us are not so lucky. Lilliputian height, post-menopausal fluff, and other sagging gems of aging make for a very different shopping experience. I am here for you, my mature, petite comrades. I am here and eager to shed light on the conundrums that plague the rest of us.

As women do, I consulted my mom’s group of Sisters-in-Stress as to their selections and thoughts for the upcoming occasion we would be attending together. We were all in a quandary regarding color, style, and length of dresses under the umbrella of “semi-formal/ cocktail.” All of us hail from the era of Audrey Hepburn and her contemporaries who maintained classic elegance. While that clothing genre still exists, current offerings run a wide gamut from harlot to dowager. Trying to enrobe my flesh with something on trend proved difficult.

A sassy matte-sequin number was already rubbing shoulders with more casual pals in my closet. As an upscale, barely worn, thrift store surprise, her fetching cocktail vibe and glove-like fit made her my right-hand gal a few years back for a swanky soiree. She has waited impatiently since, reminding me with every glance in her direction, that it is time to party again. But she was simply too fancy for this first event. I pleaded with Sassy Sequins to understand that her scales were a tad over the top and no fault of her own. But she retreated in a huff to her dry cleaner’s bag, where I left her hanging, as I continued my search for less luster. 

My online experience proved futile. UPS racked up the miles as this Goldilocks rejected successive deliveries as either too tight, too shiny, too fluffy, too old, made for beanstalks, or just a poor pairing with my varicose veins. Hubby Non-shopper occasionally queried: “Why don’t you go to a store and actually try things on?” My hasty retort became a crescendoing broken record: “Your Y-chromosome prevents you from understanding! Brick and mortar don’t cater to the vertically challenged. Petite sections are disappearing from stores. It’s a crisis of epic proportion! I HAVE to order online.” He shook his head and walked away. 

A trip to a bridal shop yielded too much bling and an avalanche of pouf, along with the “helpful” advice from a much younger stick figure to “just wear Spanx.” I have nothing against appropriate undergarments and have witnessed more than my share of attempted fashion gone awry from the absence of a little sculpting. But alas, I have PTSD: Post-Traumatic Spandex Disorder. 

My PTSD reared its ugly head years ago in a Florida fitting room. I was on vacation and shopping with a flamboyant friend who insisted I try on a Miracle Suit. This bathing costume touted the promise of appearing a size smaller. Donning the beast required a good deal of effort and perspiration only to prove that flesh manipulated in one area erupts in another, even less desirable location. Removing the magic girdle required a lot of assistance and almost a pair of scissors; cruel and unnecessary punishment for this aging torso.

While my friend and I have laughed hysterically about this over the years, the entire scenario is one I care to not repeat. And because I refuse to curtail such enjoyable acts as moving, eating and breathing, I have pledged, in the name of all things holy, to avoid human sausage casings at all costs. 

Having exhausted the internet, all things bridal, more thrift shops, and, in a panic, a plethora of other retailers, I decided to finally brave the mall. Hubby cautiously raised an eyebrow, and from a safe distance added a sarcastic: “Huh. I would have never thought of that.” Completely deflated and giving the stink eye to the undergarment department, I kept my head down and scowled my way into Macy’s. For a second opinion, I took my daughter with me under the directive that any positive comments from her would indeed be truthful; not simply uttered in order to end her perceived torture. I also promised her food and caffeine. She vowed to stay alert and honest.

A 20-year-old can markedly speed up a selection process. Items were quickly triaged with such comments as: “um NO,” “meh,” or a flat “nice.” As the search dragged on, her complete lack of emotion was helpful in circumventing any potential panic attacks on my end. Daughter awarded her highest compliment to a simple black number. With eyebrows raised, she offered a nod and a simple “That’s nice.” As I tried the same dress in another color (three to be exact) she would roll her eyes and persist: “No, we’ve been over this before. The BLACK one,” quickly followed by the universal question of “Are we done yet?”

I had finally found “The One.” Devoid of sequins, it fit well, was comfortable, did not require Spanx, and the waist thankfully matched the same location as mine. Moreover, it was truthfully approved by a young adult who, in the end, raised a hand to classic elegance. I quickly snapped a picture and sent it to my mom circle for feedback: Thumbs up all around.

The Sassy Sequins will get her chance to add glitz at an upcoming city wedding, shimmering and dancing the night away with high-heeled glamour. But she has welcomed the understated sleeveless newcomer, and together they will offer their diminutive owner a spanxless end to the cyclone of wardrobe indecision.