little black dress

I don’t own a single article of clothing that’s black.  No little black dress that’s supposedly every young woman’s necessity, no lacey black tank-top perfect for a night at the clubs, not even a black t-shirt.  Normally, this sort of discovery would be like noticing that I also don’t own anything pink; it’s a color that doesn’t fit my personal tastes, and I since I don’t usually have any need for black clothing, or fancy clothing for that matter the fact that I don’t own a single article of black clothing doesn’t phase me.  But tonight, my lack of appropriate “going out” clothing actually hindered me from seeing a good friend on her last night in town.

 

I’ve been friends with Bethany Anne Murphy ever since her mom and my mom co-chaperoned our monthly Brownies meetings after school during our first grade year.  We both wore glasses back then and both had the option of being called Beth- two very solidifying marks of good friend potential to a first-grader.  I remember playing flashlight-tag in her large and slightly wooded back-yard when we were young and faking an attack of the mosquito bites so I could hide indoors where it was light and I wasn’t alone.

 

It wasn’t until junior high, however, that Beth and I really became close.  My entire group of friends from elementary school had just started experimenting with high-school parties, drinking, some minor drugs and boys, leaving innocent me to fend for myself and find a new clique.  Bethy was there, ready to accept me into her posse of girls in which she was the obvious ringleader.  She welcomed me in with open arms and gave me a group of friends with whom I could experience the typical, awkward phases of junior high at a slower and to me, more enjoyable pace.

 

I found myself longing for those friends again later, after entering high-school, after Bethy moved out of state, and after our seemingly tight-knit group began to disband.  Boyfriends took over, popularity constantly pressured us, and life was no longer easy to understand.

 

I only recently reconnected with Beth, as we are both college graduates living in the city and trying to figure out where life will take us next.  Even though our degrees and experiences have led us down different paths- her to a job in a law firm, meeting in a glass high-rise in the center of downtown and me to a part-time gig in a unique grocery store with a full-time DJ as a boss- we’ve still been able to reconnect over our love for travel, different cultures, and our fond memories of growing up together.

 

But tonight our differences in lifestyle and routine became apparent.  Bethy is leaving the country to teach English in Thailand for 7 months and as a going-away bash, organized a night out on the town for all her friends currently living in the area, mojitos and Salsa dancing at a pretentious club just north of the river.  Excited for the opportunity to get dressed up and thrilled by the idea of going out with girlfriends, I spent a good portion of my evening preparing myself for the night ahead.  Legs were shaved, eye-liner applied, jean mini-skirt was taken out of storage.  After assembling what I thought was a fun ensemble and checking myself in the full-length mirror one last time, I felt ready.  Granted, my fun ensemble consisted of a flashy orange tank-top, jean mini-skirt, fishnet stockings, knee-socks and moccasins, but I felt sexy in my own way, confident that one could still dress like themselves and manage to enjoy an evening out on the town, or wherever they found themselves.

 

My cell phone rang just as I was about to leave.  It was Beth.  She felt she ought to call and let me know that not only did this club have a pretty steep cover, but there was a strictly enforced dress code as well.  “Just don’t wear any jeans or anything, okay?”  I looked down at my skirt trying to decipher whether a jean mini was considered “jeans.”  “How about a jean skirt?” I asked, figuring I’d leave the moccasins out of this one.  Beth paused for a minute, but even in her silence I could tell the answer was no.  “Why don’t you just put on a black skirt or pants, just to be safe” she replied.  Dang, the moccasins were surely out. 

 

After tearing through every article of clothing I owned, I realized to my own disbelief that I didn’t own anything appropriate for such a club, no slinky skirt or sexy tank-top, no heels or black pants or anything silk, satin, or bejeweled.  My wardrobe consists entirely of jeans, corduroy, flowy peasant skirts and cotton-polyester-blend t-shirts. 

 

My thoughts drifted back to my life in Minnesota.  My friends and I went out to clubs almost every night of the week, and somehow managed to enjoy Minneapolis’ night-life without ever once needing a little black dress.  I felt nostalgic for that time and longed to be surrounded by people who shared my taste in clothing.  I looked at my once perfect outfit, which was now lying in a heap on the closet floor and was immediately angry at the aforementioned, pretentious club just north of the river.  How dare that club- those bouncers and bartenders and club-goers, how dare they tell me I’m not good enough to enter, that I don’t fit the bill.  Of course I don’t fit in there, I know it and they know it.  But who’s to say that just because I don’t own anything black that I can’t come dance and share in my friend’s last night in town?

 

Angry and once again motivated to find something, anything “appropriate” to wear, I looked at my closet again.  I put on outfit after outfit, but nothing made me look “normal.”  And so, after much deliberation, and many wardrobe changes, I was defeated, forced to give in and stay home, upset that I’d be missing out on what should have been an incredible night, and even more upset that I once again allowed the elite, the popular crowd, the black-clothing-wearing-club-going-downtown-working masses make me feel inadequate. 

 

I put my original outfit back on, admiring myself in the mirror for a while and smiling at my funky style.  This is me world, you can take it or leave it, but you should know in case you decide it’s not up to some standard, that this chic is one hell of a dancer.