I’m just standing. Minding my own business. Near a wall where a guy is also standing. I am absentmindedly thinking of the thousands of things my brain is running over at the beginning of my day.

“Are those real?”

My eyebrows raise. I stand up straighter and shift my weight to allow my body language to speak for me. My eyes close for a moment, but I know that I’m really rolling my eyes at this guy. This jerk. This idiot.

“Excuse me?”

“Your eyes. Are those real? Or are they contacts?”

All of a sudden he looks pretty innocent.

I feel pretty stupid.

“Oh. Yeah. These are my real eyes.”

People, you might want to set the context when you begin a conversation with a stranger using the words ‘Are those real?’.

Just a little lesson from me to you.

Man, you people are DEMANDING. But since time is short (since, yeah, I just got dressed and am actually heading out the door right after pushing “publish” and sorry, I couldn’t show the shoes right now) all I have time to say is that I’m going to try very hard not to shake what my momma gave me at a teenage prom. This is difficult knowing how much I like to dance.

Without further ado, the dress. And the booty.

HAPPY NOW?

Wish me luck as I fix the girls’ bra straps, pin flowers on the boys, and sniff everyone for alcohol and buddha. Good times!

Hello. May I help you?

Oh. Not yet. I’m just looking for a dress.

What’s the occasion?

I have to chaperone prom this weekend. See the excitement on my face? No, you don’t. Because THERE IS NONE.

Well, what kind of dress are you looking for?

Definitely NOT something like all the young teenage girls will be wearing. 

Ok.

But also NOT something that screams Bitter Divorcée either.

I’m not sure we carry anything like that anyway, ma’am.

Super.

After our little exchange I found a dress and tried it on along with two others but The Dress I found was The One and I knew it when I reached for it on the dress rack. I tried it on first just to be sure and the saleslady had come to check on me in the dressing room.

How are we doing?

We need some help zipping it all the way up so we can see if we can breathe when we wear this.

Normally, I hate it when people ask how “we” are doing, but she seemed like a nice lady and I was in a silly mood last night anyhow.

I stepped out of the dressing room so that she could help me. When she saw me walking towards her she said:

If I may say this, ma’am, and without being weird or gay or anything you look hot.

Weird or gay, I’d let anyone say that. But back to the dress. Really? It’s not too…umm…much? 

Why?

Because it’s sorta clingy in parts and I’m sorta curvy and remember? Me. Chaperone.

Oh, no, it’s fine. It’s… (she surveyed me up and down and searched for the word she was looking for)

It’s the dress that’s going to make me bow down and thank the goddesses of hips, J-Lo and Beyonce.

Yeah. That’s it. You need to thank them.