“I have a dress you can borrow,” Marge exclaimed. “In fact I have two, they were my sister’s - you can wear one and I’ll wear the other!” My smile filled my innocent face as I beamed back at her. Homecoming attire. Problem solved.
1964. After being imprisoned in Catholic grade school with
white Ship and Shore blouses and turquoise jumpers, I was a sinking rock in a fashion
sea of Olympic swimmers as I entered my freshman year at the public high school. Dressing for my first homecoming, I felt so
mature and feminine with the help of my seasoned friend. Marge and I had gone to Catholic school
together, but she knew the ropes of trendy fads since she had an older sister
who attended the public high school.
I was so grateful I didn't have to venture out into the
jungles of retail shops to pick out my dress.
A virtual shopping virgin, I sent up a prayer of thanks for her
assistance as I donned the borrowed, yellow-laced, spaghetti-strapped bodice with
the wide hooped crinoline skirt. I must
surely be the Belle of the Ball, like something out of Gone with the Wind.
Feeling like I was trying to control a dozen helium
balloons, I packed myself into Tony's parent's Buick, barely able to see out
the windshield. I kept my hand on top of
my skirt as we drove, my wrist corsage a purple orchid in a sea of sunshine.
We finally arrived at the school and after several failed
attempts, I exited the car, feet first, Tony pulling at my arms. As we entered the transformed gym hung with school
colored streamers, I stiffened in horror as I squeezed through the door, my
date trailing far behind my blimp sized attire.
Wondering why she'd avoided me all week, I tried to find
Marge. I couldn't wait to compare
dresses, hers pink and mine yellow.
Then I saw her in the distance wearing a brand new lavender satin gown
that clung to her slender physique – the season’s straight-skirted style adorning all the girls in
the room – except for me. The crowd
parted as I formed an eight foot wide swath wherever I went, wishing I could
sink into the lacy frills and disappear.
Fifteen, fragile and red-faced…
Living through the rest of the 1960s and the
next 40 years have tempered my self-consciousness. I no longer care what anyone thinks of my
attire and I never ask anyone’s advice about what to wear.
If a formal event should find its way into my future, I may just attend with tattoos, bright pink hair, and a see
through lacy dress – or maybe I’ll look in the attic for a yellow-laced,
spaghetti-strapped, wide-hooped dress…
