OK, so next week I am off to RWA National in Reno, and that means one thing--I have to get together a respectable wardrobe before Tuesday. Despite my inordinate love of costumes and fancy gowns, my everyday needs are simple. I work at a radio station, where no one sees me but the other people who work there (nary a one a fashion plate), so in the summer I need shorts, t-shirts, and flip flops. At home, writing, I need drawstring pants and (again) t-shirts. But National is different. There are editors, agents, other authors there. I already feel like a tongue-tied fool while I'm there, anyway, I don't want to look like one, too!!! So I have to dig up skirts, heels, earrings, makeup (REAL makeup, not the lipgloss and mascara that usually passes for makeup in my everyday world). Not to mention purses, stockings, necklaces, all those fun things. Oh my.
To make things more complicated this year, I am up for a Rita, which means I might, conceivably, maybe, have to show my evening gown on stage in front of everyone. What if it's the wrong dress??? What if it looks horrible on me??? I'm freakin'. I did buy a dress, a great strapless number in black and white chiffon with a floaty skirt that I thought looked sort of Audrey Hepburn-ish (my # 1 criteria in evening wear). Then a friend of mine said she was wearing a vintage gown, and I started thinking that sounded cool. I have a gown that belonged to my gorgeous, stylish aunt in the '50s, a very Dior number in black velvet and taffeta with a crinoline skirt and sash. I haven't tried on this gown since I was about 12, but, hey, hope springs eternal. I got it out of the closet, where it lives cozily pazked in a garment bag, and tried it on.
Well, I'm sure you can imagine the rest. An I Love Lucy farce ensued. The zipper went halfway up my back and stuck, the fabric of the tiny-tiny bodice two inches apart. Not even a body shaper could help, I had to face the awful truth. But when I tried to unzip it and put it away, the zipper (circa 1953) was not going to move. Nada. I was stuck in this velvet, weighs-a-ton gown! And no way did I want to rip it. My dogs were barking at my frantic jumping-up-and-down motions, which was no help, let me tell you. I finally managed to wriggle it down, but it was a near thing. I almost had to live in it forever.
Needless to say, I won't be wearing vintage at the awards ceremony. Maybe next year, if I can figure out how to get back to my 12 year old dimensions. Maybe not.
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