The Bun

I walked in confident that everyone knew that I had purchased my boots at Marshall's, my shirt at the Gap and well, I picked up my jeans at the ward Christmas swap two years ago. The sales girls looked me over with a practiced eye and let me walk by. Normally, I might have felt awkward enough to turn around and walk out of the over-priced department store and return to the Target-corner from whence I came. But today was different, I had a little nugget of gold in the form of a gift card in my purse, a wedding in a week, a full fledged dress emergency and knowledge I would not return to this haven for all things pricey for many haute couture seasons. I made up mind while fingering a Louis Vuitton purse that I was going to enjoy this experience. How hard can it be to spend someone else's money? I picked up dresses with price tags that would normally bring a good gag reflex. I twirled around the racks while designer names I had never heard of before swirled around in my brain. I soon became dizzy and overwhelmed. Where was that familiar red dot? So when the sales lady asked if she could help me, I enthusiastically agreed. She was skilled, I will give her that. She took my measure in a glance and picked the absolutely perfect dress. I tried it on and it was true love. I felt skinny. I am not over exaggerating here. It was if I had met the perfect man, well almost perfect man. He, I mean, it was a couple inches too short. It was Jr. High at the Valentine's dance all over again--dancing with boys whose eyes were the same level as my chest. (Perhaps, the reason for my sudden popularity?) Curse my height! I knew I would never love another dress like this one. I expressed this to the kind but confused sales lady--Linda.

"You must have it. It was made for you!" she exclaimed.

"I know" I said, sorrowfully.

"Well, what's the problem, then?"

"It's too short."

"Really? With a pair of heels and some hose it will look fantastic."

Oh, how do I explain to my sweet Linda that no pair of hose will cover 2 inches of white garment hanging out. (I triple rolled them before Linda came into the dressing room.) How could I explain the horror of the temple matrons when I walked into the sealing room literally wearing my religion. I mumbled something about small children and bending over. Linda, smelling a disappearing sale, quickly suggested we call a tailor to see if the dress could be lengthened. It was the exact same feeling I felt when I realized the boys had finally grown and now I was looking at their chests. I grinned and said, "Okay."

Apparently in expensive department stores they don't want to give you much time to think/change your mind because the seamstress arrived almost immediately. With middle eastern european gusto, she explained that the dress could be lengthened a little bit but couldn't understand why I would want to change a beautiful dress. I believe the word, "matronly" came out of her mouth. Aghast, I explained about the bending, etc. Never, ever say the word matronly to a thirty-something!! Seriously, offensive. "It will be fine with hose." Did these two consult before they came in? Were they in cahoots? Nazi seamstress then demanded I try on the dress. I agreed but she would not leave the dressing room. I was mortified. There was no way I was displaying my religion. I had to ask her to leave the room while I changed. She gave me a weird look but complied. Could this experience be any more embarrassing? "It looks good. Why you change?" Finally, I explained about my religious undergarments, etc. She looked at me like I was a member of the Taliban. Nevertheless, Ms. Tailor decided she would help me.

I am now the fortunate owner of the dress, lengthened, of course. However, I may be scarred for life.