I dislike dresses. It's not the garments themselves, it's the stilted shoes that go with them, the
pantyhose that bind at the waist and twist in your crotch. I own just one, a sleeveless summer
frock I wear only when the temperature is high and my legs are tan, eliminating the need for
hose.
So it is out of desperation that one Sunday afternoon I am in my favorite store making my
way over to the dress rack. I've come in search of black silk slacks to go with the gold shirt I
plan to wear to an upcoming gala, a museum opening in D.C. sponsored by a client. An earlier
call to the sponsor's assistant yielded two dreaded words: "cocktail attire." What does that mean
exactly? I had to look it up. "Dresses are advised," I read. "Slacks are acceptable, but not in any
fabric seen in the office. Never wear a business suit." Alas, in September, as the trusted
saleswoman informs me now, black silk slacks are not yet in stock.
"Try closer to Christmas," she advises.
I don't have "closer to Christmas." I have only today. The gala is Thursday, and this is
my only time to shop. Dozens of unsuitable slacks later (cotton, polyester, wool, poly/wool
blends), I am standing in front of the dressing-room mirror in a short, black, gauzy dress. It's the
wrong size, the low-cut neckline falling loosely over my breasts. It's also a petite, but since I'm
tall the disproportion between the dress cut and my body shape somehow corrects the imbalance.
"What's it for?" the saleswoman asks.
"A gala," I say, without conviction. Studying the effect of my pale calves and bare feet
on the overall look, I feel compelled to add, "cocktail attire," as if my even considering such a
purchase requires an explanation.
She lifts the dress at my shoulders, pinching the fabric, while I stare at the chipped polish
on all 10 of my toenails. "It's the last one, but it'll be fine with some alterations."
"Alterations?"
Her eyes drift from the large dressing-room area to the open door of the small room I've
been changing in, pants, skirts, tops flung everywhere. She must have picked up on the anxiety
in my voice. The dress is new enough territory for me to cross; alterations would throw me over
the cliff. Not to mention the time element to make those alterations. She loosens her fingers and
presses the thin material down with her hands. "It'll be fine," she assures me.
Minutes later I am walking through the mall, shopping bag in hand, in search of
accessories -- shoes, hose -- to go with my new purchase. Although I bought the dress out of
necessity, I find myself looking forward to wearing it with a rising level of excitement equal to
the anticipation of the event itself. The shoes prove to be a less traumatic decision. I run into a
department store with a large shoe section, pick out two pairs, ask a well-dressed woman which
one she'd wear with my dress (which I pull out at her request and show her), and purchase her
choice. I splurge on hose, buying the most expensive pair I can find.
Four nights later I step out in my high strappy shoes to the stunned stares of my daytime
colleagues, most of whom have never seen my legs. Hundreds of people fill the room. There
appears to be a nuance of dress code I fail to understand, a fine line between the weekday
definition of "cocktail attire" and the weekend one. Or maybe the guidelines have changed or my
co-worker and I are the only ones who have consulted them. While the men are sporting suits
and ties, a lot of the women are clad in slacks, many of which are made of fabrics routinely seen
in offices. The dresses in evidence are definitely of the cotton, wool or poly/wool variety. I even
spot a few women wearing the ill-advised business suit.
My co-worker is decked out in black satin, a short skirt and tight-fitting top. We sip our
wine and pick at the food we've gathered onto tiny gold-rimmed plates from the buffet tables,
collecting admirable glances in our strolling wake, making small talk with the people standing
around us, ignoring the cloud of discomfort hovering over us. While I'm content to function in
this haze of social unease, outwardly oblivious to my fashion faux pas, my co-worker is not. She
turns to me and says, "Let's celebrate. I think this night calls for a shot."
I haven't done a shot in as long as I haven't worn a dress.
Amid the business chatter, the clink of highball tumblers and wine goblets, we sashay
arm-in-arm through the crowd across the room. Our request is met with confusion by the woman
tending bar, whose English is limited and supply of shot glasses is nonexistent. I don't get it
either, I want to tell her. She lifts the bottle of bourbon we've selected, searching for an
appropriate vessel into which to pour our drinks. She points to one of the highball glasses.
"Is okay?" she asks with uncertainty.
"It'll be fine," I tell her, without hesitation. While she pours the right drink into the
wrong glass, I glance down to make sure everything's still in the correct place. My freshly
painted toenails, visible beneath the thin layer of silky sheer nylon, peek out from beneath my
new shoes. The dress may hang, but it also clings. The hose don't bind, they shimmer.
Peggy Duffy's work (www.authorsden.com/peggyduffy) has appeared in The Washington Post,
Newsweek and The Christian Science Monitor, as well as numerous anthologies and other
publications. She lives in Virginia outside Washington D.C.
(October 2006)
