Once upon a time, about 21 years ago, there was a little girl who was going to grow up to be a fashion designer. She’d sketch and create entire bridal collections within an inter-lined notebook, sticking to what she loved best, deconstruction and a-line ball gowns.
Then she went to high school – went being a metaphoric word – and took textile tailoring, amongst five years of sewing. She kept at the little sketches, which ultimately panned out, as she was accepted into four different schools for design. Two of them wanted to combo merchandising and design into an accelerated program just for her. But then she read the fine print, realizing the likelihood of managing a Gap was likely, and never made the trek to New York.
She got engaged at 18. So it made sense that she would mentally design her dress, and commission a knock off artist for cheap to create from her sketches, mania-driven notes and swatches of fabrics. A classic, strapless ballgown with an empire waist, it had something like eight layers of tulle, lustrous satin and organza and was just a hair on the side of green from off-white. It weighed about 10 pounds.
It was amazing.
But she never got to wear it, since the wedding was cancelled very shortly before the day she was to wear it. The dress was gone.
Not much has changed about that little girl, except that she’s forgone all fashion worship. For the most part.
Enter Sex in the City. Seasons one through three. Now the little girl is all growed up, wearing Guess jeans three sizes too big, a teeshirt six years old and some pretty high stakes must be played to make her wear a bra. Yet, she’s dreaming.
Maybe I won’t have such a problem with this girly thing. I just need a few hundred dollars and a date.
[Exhibit A: The dress; Exhibit B: The perfect bag; Exhibit C: The flimsy halter; Exhibit D: The shoes.] Happy sigh.
