The Right Fit

Clothing is complicated. We ask too much of it. Life was much simpler when we took a length of fabric, draped it across our bodies and held it in place with pins fashioned out of our enemies’ thigh bones. Take, for example, my emerald green velvet evening gown. For some reason, I was downtown with my second husband trying on evening gowns. Why? Who knows? We never went anywhere that required an evening gown. A costume for a masquerade perhaps, but a genuine evening gown? Nope. Yet there I was, on a pedestal in front of a full-length mirror, zipped into a strapless, clinging velvet number worthy of Susan Hayworth. I would have said Rita Hayworth but both my gown and I lacked Rita’s structural foundations. You know, “Put the Blame on Mame.” (If you don’t know what I’m referring to, watch the video of Rita Hayworth singing “Put the Blame on Mame” in the movie “Gilda.” Watch until she raises her arms over her head. You’ll never be able to get the image out of your brain.) By the way, I can tell you why Rita was able to lift her arms and not pop out of her strapless sheath. Costume designer Jean Louis first poured her into a bathing suit that was reinforced like a train trestle, complete with hooks and anchors. Then he added straps to the inside of her gown that connected it to the bodysuit. There was no way that dress was going to do what most of the audience hoped it would. It was literally riveted in place. This brings me back to my own strapless gown. It, too, was built to be a standalone structure by the nifty means of a few well-hidden metal bones, or straps. At the time I tried it on, it fit like a glove. I fell in love. I had to own it, so I spent five times more than I’d ever spent on any other dress in my entire long life. Not only that, but around the corner from the downtown fashion district where the dress of my dreams lived was a discount store that sold all the rhinestone jewelry known to mankind. Naturally, they had a set of emerald green jewelry to go with my new outfit. I’m talking necklace, earrings, brooch, bracelet, even a ring five sizes too big for me. What did I care? The set came in a green velvet presentation case. Of course I had to buy it. It would be insane to think I could walk away from it. My beautiful gown and velvet-cased faux jewels sat or hung unused for the next ten to fifteen years. Remember when I said we never went anywhere that required an evening gown? I was serious. Eventually the second husband left and I took up ballroom dancing. I had a dance partner, a wonderful man, a funny man who was wise enough to resist all my many attempts to seduce him, bless his heart. However, he would take me to formal dances, partly because he liked dancing with me and partly because he owned five tuxedos and six pair of patent leather shoes and wanted to wear them. So here I was, finally able to dust off the never-worn emerald velvet gown and parure of green rhinestones. The problem was I had lost a few pounds. You ladies will understand that when women start to lose weight it usually comes off the two places they want propped up rather than deflated. Much to my disappointment, the dress no longer clung to me, but I showed up in it anyway. Do you recall the boning made of metal strips that held the gown’s upper parts in place? They still worked. The bodice was going to remain in one location regardless of where the rest of my body went. I found this out as we were dancing. My partner had developed the habit of putting his right hand on my left ribcage instead of under my left shoulder blade. This produced a slight tug on my dresses which didn’t matter most of the time but definitely mattered to my velvet garment. It shifted under his grasp. As a result, my dress boobs started rotating clockwise toward 2 pm, retaining their ideal shape, while my own selves remained at twelve noon. Pretty soon the rest of the robe started following. You can see where this would be a problem. Whenever I could free up both hands, I grabbed the dress’s midriff and shoved it back to center front before it reached peekaboo status. I suppose I should have just let nature take its course to convince my partner I meant business, but I lacked the nerve to be a flasher. The evening attire of my dreams went into the Goodwill bag the next day. However, it remains a pivotal lesson in the importance of fit as far as clothing is concerned. This brings me to my next formal gown story. It was a sleeveless, black, stretch lace frock sprinkled with sequins, V-neck, very trashy, found at Marshall’s for twenty bucks. I bought it when I was thinner. It was significantly more snug when I had a chance to wear it the second time, but help was available. Someone had invented strapless slips made of spandex, with built-in bras. This underpinning was supposed to smash in all manner of lumps. I bought a size I thought would allow me to breathe, but I still ran out of air trying to drag it into place. Everything seemed to be going well. My dinner friends complimented me on my ensemble. That doesn’t count because they always do. I knew the truth, however, which is that despite all my best efforts at maintaining my sculpted upper arms, they had turned into crepe paper and no one should leave the house in that state without long sleeves and gloves. Still, I brazened it out and pretended I didn’t care, which apparently I really didn’t because I hadn’t bothered to go back to Marshall’s to look for something that didn’t make me resemble Gloria Swanson’s ghost from “Sunset Boulevard.” I thought everything was working out pretty well until halfway through the evening when I excused myself to go to the restroom. Up hiked the dress and then I tried to hike up my slip…only I couldn’t find it. The damned thing had returned to its natural state, which was a rubber band. Thinking fast, I doubled checked my memory bank. I’d left the house wearing a slip attached to a bra, right? Right. The bra was still there, right? Right. Then where was the rest of it? Aha! After desperate gropings, I found it scrunched up underneath the bra, creating a cushioned roll right where my rib cage was supposed to narrow down to something resembling a waist. Pulling and dragging, I managed to stretch it once again over my hips. That’s why I bought it in the first place, to flatten my hips as well as give me a pretend waist, not shrink into a heating pad against my sternum. The rest of the evening was a series of getting up, surreptitiously pulling on the hem of my slip, dancing a bit, returning to my seat with another six or seven yanks, trying to make sure I was tugging on slip and not panties. That’s all I needed, to trip over my drawers on the way from third base to home. Gown number two went into the Goodwill bag the next day, along with the spandex rubber band. There may be a formal gown number three in my future. After ditching the trashy black number, I started taking sewing classes at The Little Sewing Room, where my teacher Morrison Jackson is trying to help me understand the difference between left and right and how to sew things that fit correctly. I’m making progress on sewing things that fit right, only because she marks up all my test copies and helps me edit them. The left and right part is a lost cause. As a result of making friends with someone who manufactures silk fabric in India, I became the proud owner of Bangalore silk yardage. Using a carefully adjusted pattern, I sewed a gown suitable for wear if I ever need to go to an Indian wedding. It fit me five months ago when I finished it. Now it’s in the closet, waiting for an invitation. I’m praying that if that day ever comes I will still be the same size, because the dress is too sheer for steel straps and I’ve lost my faith in spandex.