dressed for duress

I recently accompanied The Boss to a black-tie fundraiser.

Being cookie fancy, I actually like getting all dressed up and going out. My problem was finding time to shop. My schedule doesn't really allow me to play Pretty Woman during bankers' hours, when the darling little boutiques are open. I did poke my head into a shop that turned out to be a technicolor riot of sequins and cutouts and neon-hued charmeuse. It was like Walt Disney threw up all over a drag queen. In 1985. So, I did what any desperate (but discriminating) girl would do: I returned home and immediately ordered two dresses from Saks. But when I received them, I didn't like either of them up close. What can I tell you? I know what I like, and what I don't. You can't enjoy your evening if you're worried about whether you have visible panty lines or whether the old man sitting across the table just got a flash of boob and may subsequently die of heart failure.

One night, when the WP was spending the night with a friend, I seized the moment and attempted a smash-and-grab ballgown blitz before the department stores and the mall closed. I didn't expect to find the dress of my dreams with this approach, but I at least hoped to find something appropriate.

Shopping reality: once you've ruled out everything that closes at 5 or 6, you're not left with a lot of options. I had to drive fast and train a ruthless eye on every floor-length gown that lay in my path. I tried three stores in the mall, and all that was left was complete dreck. So, I got back into the Mach 5 and headed for another shopping area, hell bent.

In a final act of desperation, I popped into a bridal shop and found a perfectly decent dress, strapless, in a rich chocolate color that was perfect with my coloring and didn't need a single alteration. What a relief. Time being of the essence, I handed her my American Express card and was done with it. The only potential snag was that it had a corset-style closure; it laced all the way down my back. The Colonel was out of town, defending our country or whatever, and the WP is just now getting the hang of tying her shoes. Subsequently, this was going to be a challenge.

The day of the gala, I planned to leave the office at 2 p.m., giving me plenty of time to get home, take a bath, relax, and work on my pretty before I had to pick The Boss up at 6:15. However, I got involved in a project at work and didn't actually leave the office until 3. I thought, okay, no problem. Plenty of time. Maybe I could even stop on the way home and get a manicure and pedicure, so that I can be at least semi-relaxed before heading over to my friend Sarah's with my dress, so that she could lace me up and send me on my way. I quickly called and made an appointment at a salon on the way to my house, and they could take me - what luck! Did I want the deluxe spa pedicure? No, I said politely, thank you, but I'd better stick with a basic pedicure this time...a bit crunched for time, you see.

The manicurist nodded. She proceeded to give me the basic pedicure and a manicure - and I didn't get out of there for nearly an hour and a half! (Apparently, if I'd ordered the deluxe spa pedicure, I'd still be there.) When I was dry enough to split, I practically sprinted to my car in a panic. I gingerly inserted the key into the ignition - don't want to jack up the new manicure! - and I could hear the "ding-ding" of an incoming text message. I looked at my phone.

Sarah. "Will you be here by five? We're about to leave for soccer practice."

Crap! Of course - her daughter has soccer practice! I hadn't thought about that. I contemplated my options. There was no way I could be at Sarah's by five. Who could lash me into this dress? My next-door neighbor, the triathlete? Um, no. Even for me, that would be weird. I frantically called my friend Darlene, who mercifully has learned to expect just about anything from me these days. "Sure," she told me, "come on over - we're expecting several 8-year-old boys for a sleepover, but that's not until six."

Forget the bath. I now had 40 minutes to get home, wash my face and redo my makeup, do slapdash hair, gather up my dress and accessories, throw on a button-down, running shorts and flip-flops, and blow wheels to Darlene's. I didn't feel fancy. Panic is not conducive to glamorous, effortless beauty.

When I got to Darlene's, she was ready for me, beer in hand. Her husband Greg is so used to my bullshit by now that he had absolutely no reaction to my bursting in the door and sprinting up the stairs in ratty clothes, full makeup and glittery jewelry and uncharacteristically big hair, with an evening gown draped over my arms. Darlene laced me up.

"Is this thing going to stay up?" she asked skeptically as she laced. She was concerned about a wardrobe malfunction of biblical proportions.

"Look, trust me, this dress is boned up one side and down another. Get this thing laced up tight enough, and I'm not budging. Swear to God."

"I don't know. Will you be able to breathe?"

"It's a corset! I don't want to breathe! Lace it up!" And she did a thorough job. I'm pretty sure that puppy was hermetically sealed. I hopped around while slipping into my four-inch heels, hiked my voluminous skirt up to my knees, gathered up my things, and tottered down the stairs. Because I am the very picture of feminine grace.

Greg was outside greeting the eight-year-old boys and their parents in the driveway. And here comes this insane woman sprinting up the driveway in an evening gown and stiletto heels. Some were amused. Most were confused. It didn't help that Greg was singing "Here she comes, Miss America" at me.

I shot the gathering crowd a big smile. "What are y'all so underdressed for? Didn't anyone tell you this was a party?" And I loaded my stuff and my big-skirted bodaciousness into my Subaru and bolted.

Miraculously, I managed to pick up the Boss on time without committing any major vehicular offenses. We went to the fundraiser, which was a really lovely event. Afterwards, I dropped the Boss off at her house and headed home.

That's when it hit me. How. The hell. Am I going to get out of this thing.

It took me fully fifteen minutes of intense physical and mental effort to extricate myself from my dress. I wish I had video, because I am sure it looked hilarious. Holy Mother, that thing was hard to get out of.

No one was around to take photos. You'll just have to trust me.