Kimberly Wirtz You know that saying “Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most?”
I can tell this was written by a man without having to Google the quote. If it were written by a woman, more specifically a middle-aged woman, it would go something like this…
Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my waist the most.
Some women might say hair, boobs, butt, or chin. They’re interchangeable.
Why wouldn’t we say “mind?”
If you’re a mom, you’ve already mourned the loss of your mind. Surely, you’ve heard your mother exclaim, “You kids are driving me crazy!” And I bet you’ve said it yourself to your own precious, always-well-behaved kiddos. Or thought it.
Don’t lie.
If you aren’t a mom, the transition was more subtle, but it happened somewhere in the middle of your first hot flash.
Don’t feel bad. That equilibrium roller coaster would spiral anyone off a cliff. Tell me I’m wrong.
If you haven’t hit menopause yet, get ready. It’s coming for you.
But I digress.
FLASHBACKS
Back to my long-lost waist.
I had a key role in a special event last weekend where I had to wear a formal dress. It required exhaustive research and my well-worn Amazon Prime account. But I was up for it.
Once upon a time, I loved to wear dresses.
Flash back to Kim at 3 years old twirling and twirling, then plopping down on the grass to see if her skirt would splay out in all directions like a princess. Flash a little further forward to high school and the four prom dresses I wore my junior and senior years. Flash even further forward to my first wedding, where I wore a dress my mother made, and which looked right out of an 80s bridal magazine. And flash forward to my second wedding, where I wore an ethereal ivory dress that made my bust look spectacular.
That’s the last time I put on a dress I even remotely liked seeing myself in.
Now consider the effects of giving birth to four kids, including one that weighed over 10 pounds and a set of twins that weighed a collective 14. Add to that having to raise, sometimes on my own, four kids born within five years of each other. Add fibromyalgia, depression, anxiety, crippling migraines, and a couple of sleep disorders. Throw in more than 20 surgeries of various kinds, many affecting mobility. Then blaze forward to menopause. (Did you catch that hot flash pun? Pretty clever, huh? I still got it.)
Like deviled eggs at a family picnic, my waist simply disappeared. And like that empty egg tray with smudges of deviled yoke, I show traces of where it used to be. I’m left with the memory of how good it once was and, like the one person at the picnic who was cheated out of even a single deviled egg, a lasting bitterness.
BACK TO THE STORY
Dress shopping for an acceptable frock was aggravating. I searched online for months. FINALLY, I found one I Iiked. Dare I say loved? I took my measurements and sent them off to the vendor when I placed my order. It was due to arrive a month before the event. Plenty of time to make alterations if needed. The day after I placed the order, I received an email from the retailer saying the dress had shipped. Yay!
I waited. And waited. And waited. No dress. We had long ago rehomed the dog that ate my packages and their contents, so I knew there wasn’t chiffon and sequin debris somewhere in the yard.
On the last day of the shipping window during which it was supposed to arrive, I checked the tracking record. Where the hell is it??
Answer: Two days before that, it was delivered to someone in Culver City, CA. I live in Washington state. I don’t even know anyone in Culver City. I hope a kind woman, or drag queen, my size received a nice surprise.
(That’s funny because no self-respecting drag queen would wear my wardrobe. Though the dress was sort of sparkly.)
If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s to roll with the punches. I didn’t shed a tear. If I did, I don’t remember (see reference to my kids having driven me crazy already). I was now under a time crunch.
DESPERATION
I spent several days going from mall to mall desperately trying to find something. Nada. Either there was no dress my size in formal wear or the dresses in my size were more like house coats.
Back to Amazon and Google. After a few more days and a case of trigger finger, I located two dresses that came in my size, fit the style of the event, AND could arrive in time. I quickly ordered them both.
Just to be safe, I dug in my closet for two brand new relaxed-fit pantsuits – one beige, one navy. I trudged back to the mall to buy shoes and accessories to dress them up. Gold, pearls and rhinestones for the beige. Pearls and silver for the navy. If the dresses didn’t show up, I was prepared. I wouldn’t have to go to the event naked or dressed only in Spanx. (To everyone at the event, you’re welcome.)
I checked my email for delivery alerts and looked for packages in the driveway (where delivery drivers throw our packages) every day. Every day the dresses didn’t arrive brought me closer to resorting to a pantsuit. Sure, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, but no woman expecting a gorgeous formal dress says, “Oh yay! I get to wear baggy beige pajamas! With pearls!”
One of the dresses showed up. Glory be! But my big sigh of relief turned to disappointment when I tried the dress on. Didn’t fit. Too big. DID THEY NOT READ MY MEASUREMENTS?? Ok…maybe the next one would work. I liked the last one better anyway. I tucked the disappointment away.
I waited. And waited. And waited.
The night before traveling to the event, I dug out the tracking number. Where in the hell was my dress THIS time?
California. I kid you not.
I took a deep breath and looked again. Yes, it was in California, but it was on its way to me. No expected delivery date. Ugh!
Alright pantsuits…you’re on deck.
AND WE’RE ROLLING…
As I ran out the door to hit the road to the hotel, I grabbed the only dress that showed on time and a sewing kit. Better safe than sorry, right? I could take it in by hand if necessary. Not ideal. But we were looooong past ideal.
The night before the event, which we will call T minus 16 hours, I grabbed both pantsuits and the dress, and a full-length mirror and set out to make a final decision.
Beige pantsuit: Nope. Looked like a stylish prison jumpsuit. (#orangeisthenewblack) Not even the blinged-out accessories helped. All I needed to complete the look were black rubber slide-on shoes and a neck tattoo. Next!
Navy pantsuit: Nope. It is the same design as the beige pantsuit. While I no longer looked like a prison convict, I resembled Violet Beauregard. You know — the blueberry in Willy Wonka. Probably didn’t help that I was also chewing gum. Next!
The too-big dress: In defeat, I put the dress back on and pulled the pins, a needle, and a spool of thread out of the sewing kit. I took that dress in four inches on each side. I would have been mortified for my seamstress-extraordinaire mother, God rest her agnostic soul, to inspect my handiwork. I wouldn’t have even wanted my high school home economics teacher to see it.
I went to bed that night dreaming of the original dress – the off-the-shoulder, lace-sleeved bodice, and the high/low chiffon skirt that flowed so beautifully. Rolling with the punches is a b*tch sometimes.
MEH
The next day, I suited up and looked at myself in the mirror – hair and makeup all done, glitzy accessories recycled from the beige prison uniform.
Meh. I wasn’t the guest of honor at this shindig anyway, and I know how to use Photoshop.
The dress was floor length. This is where I remind you that I am accident prone. I spent the entire event holding up my skirt like a little girl trying to avoid puddles while I sweated through the chiffon in 96-degree heat.
I got through it. First-world problems and all. I didn’t even fall. Miracles DO happen.
Today, I donated that dress to The Goodwill. Maybe a kind local woman, or drag-queen, will stumble across it and put it to use. My stitching was so shoddy that they’ll have no problem ripping it out.
I kept the prison uniform and the blueberry suit, though.
Always have a backup plan.
EPILOGUE
The third and final dress showed up four days AFTER the event. I sent a photo of the dress in a text to my husband, who was a spectator for the entire ordeal.
Me: Look what showed up today.
Him: About time! I’m anxious to see you in it.
After trying the dress on…
Me: You won’t.
I guess what I miss the most right now is my waist AND the dress in Culver City, which some lovely woman is probably sweating in at this very moment.
Give it to The Goodwill, honey.
