By Barbara Falconer Newhall
My niece’s wedding was just days away and I didn’t have a thing to wear.
A beautiful, talented young woman was marrying a terrific young man. They’d known each other for years. This was a handsome pairing, and it was going to stick.
It called for something pretty and danceable. Something to signal my auntly pleasure in this happy turn of events. Wedding at 6, followed by dinner and dancing — I wanted to show up with all the glitz and pomp I could muster
A visit to the evening wear section of my closet – all four inches of it – turned up two pairs of
baggy black slacks and a couple of cautious, loose-fitting tops with sleeves down to the wrists.
None of this would do. This wedding needed A Dress. Wedding wear. A festive evening confection with panache and color and sparkle.
And skin. Lots of it. Arms. Legs. And, what the heck, décolletage.
The dress couldn’t be white, of course. That’s the bride’s prerogative. And it certainly couldn’t be black. People might conclude that I was an old fussbudget mourning the match. That meant that finding The Dress would be a bit of a challenge.
I put on my best bra and off to the mall I went.