This is the story of a dress. A blue dress. No, not the blue dress of infamy, but my blue dress. The one that, when anyone who saw me in it is asked about the blue dress, goes “oh yeah…that dress!” And smiles.
Coincidentally, Tom proposed not long after seeing me in the blue dress.
When I think of myself as thin and fit, I think of myself in the blue dress. When I imagine myself as smokin’ hot, I see myself in the blue dress. When I’m at the rec center, adding more weight and breathing hard, I remind myself of the blue dress.
The blue dress is long gone from my home, banished by two pregnancies and a completely janked metabolism.
I miss the blue dress. More than that, I miss the girl in the blue dress. The girl who worked hard, who knew where she was going and what she was going to do when she got there. The girl who thought she was overworked and stressed (actually, I just want to go back and bitch-slap that girl). The girl who had her whole life in front of her and nothing was going to stop her. The girl who was smokin’ hot and didn’t know it.
I want the blue dress back.
And if you can’t find me in this picture, I’m the one front and center with the slit all the way up.
Mine was red. Deep scarlett red. Damn I miss that dress. And, yes, the body that fit in it.
My dress is black. I still have it and it taunts me.
A tan Tahari dress and a black pantsuit. Yes, two of them mock me. Sigh, I don’t think they could make it past the hips these days.