This Dress Is Everything I Want To Be In Life
A thing of beauty is a joy forever, or at least for as long as it remains in your Facebook feed.
I have found the dress that represents everything I want to be in life. There it is. The “Sparkle Within Dress.” It will make me sparkle within, like I am radioactive.
Gazing on the thumbnail image, I see my future sewed into every sequin. A future of well-nigh guaranteed joy.
And so I click on the image, and there it is. The dress. Larger. Hanging on a headless cloth mannequin that could be me. With a price and description. But I don’t need the description. I know what the dress is. I know what the dress means.
If I had this dress, I would be an all-powerful flapper queen.
If I had this dress, I would be the human version of an art deco building.
If I had this dress, I would be the happier version of Dorothy Parker.
If I had this dress, I would be the hostess of utterly glamorous yet tasteful evening salons.
“Do come by on Friday,” I would say. “We’ll open some of the bottles I bought at auction from that Gothic castle that burned down.”
If I had this dress, I would glide across the floor of my gracious drawing room, air-kissing my smart and hilarious guests and saying things like, “How can you all be so smart and hilarious?” and “Can I get you another martini, Ruth Bader Ginsburg?”
Other times, I would wear the dress to the picture show or to the races and say things like, “Friedrich, please bring the Duesenberg around so I may go buy some bougainvillea.”
But I need the dress in order to obtain this existence. The dress is required. Without it, the future is dark and bleak, like the grave or a craft store that smells of Glade Yankee Christmas Candles.
The dress says: I sparkle like consumer desire. And I say: Does consumer desire sparkle? And the dress says: But of course it does, silly.
And then the dress looks at me with amused and affectionate condescension and does that gentle-chin-punch-thing that men do in old movies when they mean to say: You crazy dame. I’m superior to you, but I find you fetching.
The dress says — nay, insists: You must drink cocktails when you wear me. Probably champagne cocktails. Probably many of them.
And the dress is right. The dress cannot be questioned.
You will totally not get a headache because I will prevent it. So says the dress.
If I had this dress, I would have a torrid affair with a writer-slash-pilot at the turn of the century.
But how will I return to the turn of the century to make this happen? I ask the dress. And the dress says, There, there. I will take care of it all.
The writer-slash-pilot would always be setting off to go big-game hunting or to explore unchartered parts of the sea, but I wouldn’t mind.
“I shall miss you, Ajax,” I would say. “But only in the independent woman sort of way. And I will still have my dress.”
“I will miss you too, my darling,” he would reply, taking me in his manly-in-a-literary-man-kind-of-way arms. “But I’ll see you after the rains.”
If I had this dress, I would also be a lady detective. I would solve crimes that would be more perplexingly quirky than deeply disturbing.
I would examine evidence with my gold-and-diamond magnifying glass necklace. Casting my sumptuous black velvet coat onto the nearest chaise, I would exclaim, “It’s clear that the killer is the cheese man. I could tell by the way he sniffed the Pouligny-Saint-Pierre.”
All of my cases would be cheese-related. And my clients would be thrilled with my deductions about Morbier and Mimolette. They would consult me on all murders involving Epoisses.
“That is amazing!” they would exclaim when I outlined my deductions. “You are an extraordinarily talented lady detective.”
“Thank you,” I would say, smiling inscrutably in the manner of the Mona Lisa and lighting a French cigarette. “But I couldn’t have done it without the dress.”