Rites of Spring

As soon as the first day of spring arrives, I feel the need to do two things: pay attention to my gardens, and shop for a dress. As trees burst forth with blossoms and green shoots of perennials break through the soggy earth, I am filled with hope for my gardens. And while it is yet raining, I am filled with hope that I will find the perfect dress that will see me through weddings and reunions and all the
festivities of a glorious summer. Ah, hope.

Like Christmas shopping, I decided to start early while the selection is abundant. As I drove to the mall, I felt as if I was awakening from a long winter’s nap. Stores windows proclaimed the latest fashion trends: Baby Doll! Romantic! Spring’s Flirty Little Dress! We’ll see.

Turtleneck sweaters and all woolen things were banished to the clearance racks. Little cotton dresses dotted the landscape of the Misses section. There were plaids, seersuckers, and gauzy selections, all implying that there would soon be summer heat. Some stores had all the dresses all in one place. There were so many little dresses on each rack that it was a brightly-colored tangle of spaghetti straps and flowing fabric. Surely I could find something cute and cool to wear to the Fabiano Family reunion in central California this summer.

I had seen some dresses on a TV commercial that looked like they might fit the occasion. They looked modest enough, hip enough, and shapely enough to hide a multitude of sins. I went to the store and noticed immediately that I was, by far, the oldest person in the cavernous building.

I found exactly one dress. It was positively diaphanous. I could see myself in the little video that played in my head - walking barefoot on a flawless beach, sun hat in hand, while a breeze gently tosses my long hair, and ripples the white cotton dress. It was Hawaii, and Cape Cod, and central California.

In the dressing room, it only took one glance in the mirror to realize that my video has nothing to do with reality. My long hair is gone, and with it my wear-anything figure. Looking back at me was my mother’s daughter, a senior citizen in some circles. And yet I rushed headlong into the folly.

I turned my back to the mirror, and stepped into the dress. It was not a good sign that I nipped myself with the zipper under my left arm. A dress ought not to nip. I smoothed, straightened, adjusted, and slowly turned around. It was a sight to behold. I started to giggle. The shape of the dress made me look like a wine bottle in a white paper bag. No, not a wine bottle: perhaps a whiskey flask in a white plastic bag. But no, more like a nun in an uncomfortable nightgown. By now I was laughing out loud.

No one but God would ever see me in this, and I really hope he keeps his holy visions to himself. I almost began to blame him, but decided it was an ungrateful exercise. Perhaps I made him laugh, if for only a moment, in his intense, often unrewarded role as Creator. It made me appreciate his love for me, moles, rolls, and all. I thanked him for this life and this body.

So, after optimistically trying on every possible dress, I’m back to the beginning. Romantic Flirty Little Baby Doll Dresses of the season are made for someone else. And it won’t be long until some are banished to the clearance rack. I know that the key to looking dazzling is one little phrase, "age appropriate." For now I’ll just pull on a sweatshirt and jeans, and tackle the gardens. That’s more like me.