I splurged a bit for my bachelorette party earlier this year. It had been a weird month, and wedding planning was stressful, and in my head I had this vision of a bridal-like dress with all the night-out accoutrements I normally skip when shopping. It was the perfect combination to create a ‘Fuck it, I’m buying whatever I want,’ moment, and that’s what I did. I imagined something form-fitting and fun—and ivory, or a color close to it—that showed more skin than any dress in my adult wardrobe. Something that made me want to tug on the hem to cover my butt while simultaneously thinking ‘My butt looks so good who cares if someone sees is?’ So I headed to the motherland of sexy mall dresses, Bebe, and fell in love with a frock on the sale rack.
But after my bridesmaids and I returned from Kansas City—and the hangover wore off and I got the last bit of glitter out of my eyes—the dress made its way to my closet and never returned. I don’t have a ton of places to wear a low-cut metallic paisley dress with tulle underskirt, which I know is both shocking and disappointing. It fell into the land of hard to wear garments (things that require: Spanx, a stick-on bra, a miracle, and/or all of the above) and never returned.
Until this weekend.
This weekend I worked on one of the most un-sexy projects (scrapbooking) and was reminded of my sex-on-a-stick dress (seen in the photos for the wedding scrapbook.) It started innocently enough, wondering if I knew where I’d put the dress. Then it turned into seeing if I could style it to be a bit more wearable. And then I didn’t want to take it off because, damn it, it looked good.
And I didn’t tug on the hem of the dress once.