Oh, Rob!
In shopping for a reunion dress last week, I was forced to come face to face with a reality about myself. I want to be Laura Petrie.
This is not new information for me. It's something I've always thought in the recesses of my mind, but I've never admitted it to myself, at least not out loud. I've always thought of Laura as the perfect housewife (not that I like admitting that I'm a housewife. I'm a freelancer who tends to the house between jobs, which just happens to be most of the time.) She was cute, sexy, witty, supportive, and every bit Rob's intellectual equal. Not only that, she had an adorable wardrobe. Her clothes were always attractive, but they were also practical for whatever she was doing. I've often dreamed of having her wardrobe. I don't mean an updated version of her wardrobe. I want the authentic, 1960's, Laura Petrie collection. It's always something that has resided in my fantasy world, but it's never seeped its way into reality. However, something happened last Friday that made me confront this truth head on.
I was perusing the racks at Macy's and saw a dress that took my breath away. It was a classic, silk chiffon cocktail dress - like something out of my Laura Petrie fantasies. If I didn't know better, I'd swear the dress actually called my name. But I got one look at the price tag - $160 - and I was gone. I couldn't mess around with a dress that costly. Still, as I kept walking around looking for dresses better suited to my budget, I kept hearing, "Oh, just put it on. You'll always wonder what you would have looked like in it." I knew it was true. I can remember specific dresses I fell in love with 10 or even 15 years ago, sometimes better than dresses I've actually owned. Quickly, before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed the dress and headed into the fitting room. I put it on, zipped it up, and looked at myself in the mirror. I couldn't stop smiling. I was Laura Petrie, and I loved it. It wasn't about what people would think if they saw me in it - for once I didn't care about that. It wasn't even about the way it looked on me so much, even though I liked it. It was about the way I felt when I put it on. It felt good to wear something that suited my personality so much as opposed to trying to find something with hints of my personality in the midst of whatever fashion is being mass produced that season. I've never before had the experience of putting on something that looks like I could have imagined it into being. I couldn't even resist whispering the words, "I love this dress", as if the feeling were so strong that I couldn't contain it in my head any longer and it overflowed to my lips. After some lingering in front of the mirror, I realized I had to move on, so the dress went back to the hanger and I went back out into the store.
If you're waiting for the moment where I decide to do something for myself and buy the dress anyway, I hate to disappoint you. As much happiness as I felt wearing it, I know that the happiness would have been greatly diminished by the knowledge that I'd paid $160 for the privilege. But, I've been on eBay every day watching for it, hoping someone will wear it once, decide to sell it, and pass the savings on to me. The dream isn't over. I may just have that little silk chiffon number yet. Then I'll throw a dinner party to celebrate. Of course we'll invite Buddy and Sally. Tell Buddy that Pickles can come too.
This is not new information for me. It's something I've always thought in the recesses of my mind, but I've never admitted it to myself, at least not out loud. I've always thought of Laura as the perfect housewife (not that I like admitting that I'm a housewife. I'm a freelancer who tends to the house between jobs, which just happens to be most of the time.) She was cute, sexy, witty, supportive, and every bit Rob's intellectual equal. Not only that, she had an adorable wardrobe. Her clothes were always attractive, but they were also practical for whatever she was doing. I've often dreamed of having her wardrobe. I don't mean an updated version of her wardrobe. I want the authentic, 1960's, Laura Petrie collection. It's always something that has resided in my fantasy world, but it's never seeped its way into reality. However, something happened last Friday that made me confront this truth head on.
I was perusing the racks at Macy's and saw a dress that took my breath away. It was a classic, silk chiffon cocktail dress - like something out of my Laura Petrie fantasies. If I didn't know better, I'd swear the dress actually called my name. But I got one look at the price tag - $160 - and I was gone. I couldn't mess around with a dress that costly. Still, as I kept walking around looking for dresses better suited to my budget, I kept hearing, "Oh, just put it on. You'll always wonder what you would have looked like in it." I knew it was true. I can remember specific dresses I fell in love with 10 or even 15 years ago, sometimes better than dresses I've actually owned. Quickly, before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed the dress and headed into the fitting room. I put it on, zipped it up, and looked at myself in the mirror. I couldn't stop smiling. I was Laura Petrie, and I loved it. It wasn't about what people would think if they saw me in it - for once I didn't care about that. It wasn't even about the way it looked on me so much, even though I liked it. It was about the way I felt when I put it on. It felt good to wear something that suited my personality so much as opposed to trying to find something with hints of my personality in the midst of whatever fashion is being mass produced that season. I've never before had the experience of putting on something that looks like I could have imagined it into being. I couldn't even resist whispering the words, "I love this dress", as if the feeling were so strong that I couldn't contain it in my head any longer and it overflowed to my lips. After some lingering in front of the mirror, I realized I had to move on, so the dress went back to the hanger and I went back out into the store.
If you're waiting for the moment where I decide to do something for myself and buy the dress anyway, I hate to disappoint you. As much happiness as I felt wearing it, I know that the happiness would have been greatly diminished by the knowledge that I'd paid $160 for the privilege. But, I've been on eBay every day watching for it, hoping someone will wear it once, decide to sell it, and pass the savings on to me. The dream isn't over. I may just have that little silk chiffon number yet. Then I'll throw a dinner party to celebrate. Of course we'll invite Buddy and Sally. Tell Buddy that Pickles can come too.
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