OMG! Who Wore It Best?

I’d been anticipating this past Saturday evening for weeks, as I would get to dance the night away in semi-formal glory.  I’d found the perfect dress, in an awesome color.  I choose shoes to kick off and a matching bag, and I spent some time getting all gussied up.  I felt like a million bucks, and I was ready to par-tay.  Imagine my shock and dismay when, just as the party was warming up, another woman arrived in a dress that was very similar to mine.  Her dress had so many of the qualities I thought were unique to my own—style, classiness, and a je ne sais quoi that I can only describe as a radiant badassery.  How could this have happened?

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Naturally, as soon as this woman and I saw one another, we each felt a sense of deep shame.  The headline practically wrote itself:  Who Wore It Best?  And the tagline followed, as if decreed from on high:  Fashion Faux Pas.  The question was—who would leave the party triumphant, and who would hang her head, allowing a shame that should have remained private to become oh so very public?

I did my best to have a good time. I drank wine, to clear my head.  I ate some fabulous cupcakes and chocolate-covered strawberries.  I danced like no one was watching.  But nothing could assuage the pain of knowing that I might not be the one who wore it best.

My rival had some clear advantages:  first, and most importantly, she is younger than I.  Much to my chagrin,  I have became part of the over 40 set.  Also, I am a mother and my rival is not.  This, I knew, was a major mark against me.  It wouldn’t take long for someone to find a picture of me in mom jeans.   And what if people found out that, instead of losing my baby weight in the standard five days, it had taken me more like a mortifying five years?  Oh, the angst.

In an effort to improve my standing, I danced next to younger men.  Perhaps people would think I was a cougar.  I knew my husband wouldn’t mind.  If I wasn’t a cougar, surely I would become a MILF.  Maybe even a trophy wife!  Yes.  Here, I was sure, was my path to victory.

Once, in a moment of pure abandon, I danced next to my rival.  We even linked arms and spun around a bit.  But we weren’t fooling anyone.  We both knew what was coming, as inevitable as menses and taxes:  The Fashion Face-Off.

At the end of the evening, we took a deep breath, made eye contact, and knew the deep and undeniable truth:  we both rocked it like a hurricane.  Oh, yeah we did.

From that truth flowed another:  every woman there rocked her outfit like a hurricane.  We are all beautiful, inside and out, and it showed.

My former rival and I embraced one another in all our shining glory.  It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

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