Carefully, I step into the dress as if it were a bathtub of hot water. I had thought about an overhead entrance but saw myself drowning in all the tulle spread across the bottom. There are many hooks in the back but by turning the dress backward, I’m able to hook it pretty easily up to my shoulder height. I spin it again, cheered by the fact that I’m managing my body into this garment with no telltale size sewn into it. For this kind of money, this dress is whatever size a woman wants it to be.
Now things get harder. The bodice is very fitted and I can just get my arms through the holes with an extra push. While I admit this isn’t the size for me, I can’t picture myself admitting defeat to the French.
My arms are held tight now to my sides, as the gown is stiffly sculptured. This isn’t a dress to cut a rug in. I stand back for a moment and despite my lack of mobility, I can see the magnificence. This isn’t a dress. This is art. This dress is an elixir of the sort I’ve been too practical to drink, yet now seem to want. I decide that the people who buy dresses like this are either in love or angry and maybe I’m both.
I sidle up to my phone and can’t even bring my arms together given the rigidity of the sleeves, but I get it to camera mode, set the timer, prop it on a handbag shelf, and stand back for the flash. The result is a small miracle. Perhaps the lighting is slimming or the fact that nobody can tell the dress can’t fully close in the back. I’ve taken a photo worthy of the cover of Allure, and even though it’s all an illusion, it’s a great souvenir of this bizarre day.
I begin to reverse the process. With one hand swooped behind my back I carefully unhook the lower closures. But I’ve either gained a pound while standing in the dressing room or have begun to sweat and stick because the dress seems attached to my too-big body. I tug and inhale and hold my breath and anticipate some expensive ripping sound, but none comes. It’s clear that I can’t turn the dress around again without tearing it. I fuss with things for a full three minutes before feeling panic about to kick in. I know the signs of panic—the accelerated heartbeat, the shortness of breath, the sweat—and I also know how to stop it. I sit down and watch my reflection in three-sided absurdity. I inhale through my nose, hold my breath, and count to eight. I exhale through my mouth and I do this again and again until I feel my heart rate normalize. I may have bought a yearlong yoga studio membership that I’ve used three times, but it can’t be said I came away from “my practice” with nothing.
“Calmly,” I say out loud and tell myself that I simply need another pair of hands, and that those hands are just down the stairs. I can even hear the French voices that go with those hands. I call out to them in a humbled and embarrassed way. No answer. I turn the knob on the dressing room door, but it’s locked. The bee-otch has locked me inside to prevent me from stealing? My heart picks up the pace again, forgetting every calm thing I’ve just told it. I yell.
Nothing.
The ladies are positively hysterical for some unknown reason, laughing and shrieking, and I presume it has nothing to do with me. I reach down for my phone in an attempt to call the store. I first call directory assistance to get the number and a computer voice asks the name of the business I’m inquiring about and I realize I have no idea what the name of this place is. I look at the $15K price tag, but no name is printed on it. I get switched to a human, a supervisor. Pathetically, I attempt to tell some sweet, unsuspecting operator my story, and tell him approximately where on Madison Avenue the store is.
“It’s a dress shop,” I say.
“Ma’am, I have several listings of dress shops on Madison,” he says patiently.
“But it’s in the East Seventies,” I say. “Some French name.”
“Ma’am, it’s hard for me to find this place without a name or an address, and I don’t speak French.”
I’m starting to blubber when Directory Assistance Guy offers to call 911 for me. I say it’s okay and hang up. Again, I sit and try to calm myself. I see that Henry has sent me an email and for lack of anything to do at the moment, I open it.
We cannot be what we promise to be, which is something, someone real, not just a beautiful idea in a secret place.
I’m not rational enough to stop myself, so this time I write back. With one finger I slowly type my metaphor-filled message, feeling anger well inside me.
Last time I checked I was real. It’s you who are unreal and me who fell into your little fish fantasy for just a moment, me who got tangled in some mermaid dream disguised as a dress. Well, the dress doesn’t fit, the dress is too small and now I’m locked and tangled with no way out.
I attach the photo from just seconds ago and let emotions get in the way of my carefulness. I hit the send button. It’s the first personal email of his I’ve responded to.
After a few moments, I hoist myself up again and wiggle my way to the door and begin to pound. The French ladies are quieter now and I’m surprised they can’t hear me, nor have they checked on me. I keep hitting the stupid door with the brunt of my palm. Tears that come from nowhere now roll down my face and feel so relieving.