The Skirt

As I’ve complained before, I loathe shopping. I somehow got tricked into entering a department store by my family because someone needed something and we were having a “family day,” and it obviously wasn’t my turn to choose the day’s activities. Ugh.

We entered the store through the women’s clothing section and I seriously felt like a four-year-old being dragged through a “grown-up” store. All I really wanted was to take a nap.

I was just about to crumple to the floor and throw a proper tantrum when I spotted The Skirt. I metamorphosized from a bratty four-year-old to an Academy Award winning Actress (Actor? Whatever.) in an L.A. minute. I could almost hear people shouting, “Who are you wearing?”

I told my family to run along to get whatever whomever needed what, and my people would call their people when I was ready to exit, stage right.

I took the skirt off the rack and put it back at least five times. It was unnecessary. It was on sale! I’d never have an occasion to wear a skirt like that. But I could make one up! Why bother trying it on? It fit perfectly and made me look, dare I say, svelte? Need I say more? I don’t think so.

The saleswoman talked me into buying a rather matronly top to wear with it. It was on sale. It was okay. It worked. But the first time I wore it I was shedding sequins faster than a drag queen running the 50-yard dash.

I was excited when we received two wedding invitations because I’d get to wear the skirt to both since no one from the first wedding would be at the second one, and, of course, I was happy for the brides and grooms blah, blah, blah.

The first wedding took place at the Blackstone Hotel in Chicago, where Richard’s and my parents were married. My brother Paul’s Bar Mitzvah party had been there, as well.

As the photographer placed our family into the most unnatural poses in the history of all of photography, my parents began to wonder where the busload of kids was that should have already arrived.

Once my mother was informed that the bus driver, who was responsible for safely delivering a bushelful of 7th graders from the synagogue, thought he was supposed to take them to Blackstone Avenue, she began to fear for the safety of the children, as well as the rapid rate at which the ice sculpture was melting.

Thankfully, the shrimp on the buffet was still cold when the children disembarked, not even aware they’d been on a site-seeing tour of the south side of Chicago.

When Richard and I arrived at The Blackstone Hotel for the first wedding, four women who had just left the hotel looked at me and gasped. “Oh, my God! You look fabulous! That skirt is amazing! You look beautiful!”

I said, “Okay. Who is paying you to say this? Where’s John Quinones? Seriously, what is going on?”

Can you believe in this day and age people still act like that in public? They were just being nice and really liked my ensem. I ate it up and swallowed every last bit of it. I became The Skirt, or The Skirt became me, or something like that.

As you’ll see the in the first set of photos, you can dress me up, but you can’t take me anywhere. But, you have to admit, I am pretty talented.

The next wedding we attended had The Best invitation and response card, if you like a side of humor with your salmon. It took place at The Hard Rock Hotel in Chicago.

My skirt and I gracefully swept through the hotel to snap photos of the authentic displays of fabulosity on the walls, before Richard gently reminded me we were there for a wedding, not to stare with wonderment at Steven Tyler’s tiny pants. (Don’t get all judgy on me. I can’t help that I find him attractive.)

I’m excited for The Skirt to return from the dry cleaner so we can make our next appearance. Since we have no invitations at the moment, I’ll lounge around in it while watching the next Bears or Hawks game, and the best part about that is I’ll be wearing comfy, fluffy slippers; not heels.