Closet space

Oh man.  I kind of knew this day would come, I just wasn’t sure how I’d feel about it.  How I feel about it=bummed!

I used to work for a cruise line [we shall draw the curtain of charity over the cruise line's name, in the hopes that I will be free to rant subsequently about said cruise line with impunity] singing songs in their back lounge.  One of the benefits of this gig was that lovely women in my circle of family and friends leaped, I say, LEAPED at the chance to get their super-ultra-extra-fancy sequinned/beaded/satin/spangled/strapless dresses out of the dry-cleaning bags at the back of the closet and on to a real live human, esp. since they could then imagine the glamour and mayhem the dress underwent throughout the cruise ship’s itinerary.  [Anybody else feel that way about the clothes they lend out to friends:  like, it's OK if they have them but you want to have each item fitted with a little radio collar so you can track its movements in the wild?  "Did you wear that long black sweater-dress to the job interview?  Oh, yeah?  And then where?"]

So I’ve been bragging about this lavish closet of mine since I left the ship, and every once in a while I flip through them, seeing their wears and tears and pulled threads [it's different to have evening dresses that you actually WORK in].  There really are tons of them, enough to ensure no duplicates for a month of full-on formal nights:  one my Mom made in rust-coloured satin, a real stunner that consists entirely of glass beads and wears about 200 lbs, some sleeper hits from corny prom-type stores on Eglinton that looked absurd on the rack but tremendous when worn, and a few genuine vintage gowns:  full length, none of this wussy cocktail-length bushwa.  I am proud of them, but let’s face it; they don’t get worn very often.  My uniform these days is more like what they wear on Star Trek TNG:  stretchy gender-neutral pajamas, to provide maximum practicality, so I can teach and bike and walk and whatever all else I do in comfort.  Not very glamourous I’m afraid.

Imagine my delight at getting invited to a proper New Years’ Eve party!  Time to pull ‘em out!  And the boas and gloves and earrings and whatnot!  I hasten home, disrobe, and enlist M as Senior Zipper Technician…

…and not a single one fits.  Not one.  And not in the usual ways you’d think they wouldn’t fit, either.  Bottoms, thighs and waistline are all relatively unscathed [a couple notable exceptions about which the less said, the better], but Sr. Z-T reports being consistently stymied at:  THE RIB CAGE.  The rib cage!  Yoga is SO UNFAIR.  All this “cultivating more fullness through the back body” and now I can’t wear my awesome dresses.  John Friend, you and I are going to have to have a little talk!  And then of course, I’m immediately assailed by a series of complicated and not altogether pleasant thoughts:

1.  I thought I wouldn’t care about this kind of thing when it happened.  But man, I really care a lot.  I also feel like I shouldn’t care, that part of this practice would free me up from feeling bad about weight or body image.  Self-Confidence=Ur Doin It Rong

2.  All the people I’ve been bragging to about these dresses are going to suspect me of pathologically lying

3.  I don’t want to give them away but I can’t use them anymore.  Huh, I kind of see how I came to end up with them in the first place.

I worried my way into a big wine-coloured flowy number with a sequinned bandeau top [that barely did up, I'll have you know] and enjoyed a most excellent NYE, but man…what am I going to do with them now?  Anybody going on a cruise ship anytime soon?  I’ll get them all fitted with radio collars in advance.

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