The Dress

It was soft cotton--elegant in a simple way – black and white, fitted bodice with a scooped neck and gathered skirt, trimmed in white embroidered cotton lace.  And my 16 year old body, with a 32A cup filled it out in all the right places--stop laughing; a genetic deficiency out of my control!  I loved that dress!  

All would see me as the confident, well-carried young woman that the dress depicted! The HOURS I’d babysat--at 25 cents per hour--to pay for it were worth every runny nose, bedtime story, scratched and patched knee and trip to the playground!

To celebrate my new dress, Donna, my best friend, and I went out for dinner.  We ignored the fact that this dress was supposed to impress 16 year old boys.  Why wait for an date when we could have a girls’ night out!    The place we chose was just a cheap diner—after buying the dress, it was all I could afford!  I walked to a booth near the back of the room—in high heels, nylons, panty girdle, and the “dress”—the whole enchilada.   I did look good!

The waitress brought us menus.  Spaghetti!  That’s just what I wanted—and to be truthful, the cheapest item on the menu.    Our plates came piled high.  Delicious!

About half way through, I started to panic.  “Donna, I can’t breath!  I just can’t catch my breath!”  I began hyperventilating!

Donna, always the practical one, suggested I unzip my dress.  The zipper started just below the neck and went down the back into about 4 inches of the skirt.  My arm flew back but in my panicked state, I couldn’t reach the fastner.  My friend slithered out of the booth and came around to my side, and as inconspicuously as possible, unzipped it all the way down.  No doubt the tables around us saw Donna's manuevers, (that and the sound of our giggles).  I was too embarrassed to look up from my spaghetti.  To breathe again was something akin to a religious experience!  Amazing how relaxed one can become when the ability to breathe is restored.   

 I finished my meal and topped it off with dessert.  When it was time to leave, Donna suggested she redo my zipper.  The journey upward began, but just short of my waist, it would not move.    She tried to pull the two sides together, and there was still a good inch of skin showing.  I then realized there was no way I would leave the diner as I'd proudly walked in.

We sat in the restaurant another 30 minutes trying to figure out what to do—and to see if I would “downsize.”   OK, more giggling, as well.  

In those days, backless dresses were not worn.  And since we’d sat very close to the rear, I would have to parade past perhaps 10 booths and tables to get to the door.

Finally, the time came.  I got up slowly, straightened the front of my dress so if anyone looked, they could still admire the curves.  Donna followed v-e-r-ry closely behind me while we tried for some semblance of dignity--"togetherness" took on a whole new definition. 

That dress hung in my closet a long time.  O, I did wear it again, but NEVER on a dinner date.