The dress cost me $85. I know, it seems ludicrously pricey, and it nearly wiped out my entire entertainment budget for June. Guilt washed over me as I thought about how I could have spent that money on work blouses or a nice pair of shoes to elevate my lackluster career wardrobe. Yet, I bought it anyway.
At 23, my weekends revolved around weddings—attending them as a guest, serving as a bridesmaid, or taking on any other role that the wedding planning books suggested. The dresses I had brought from my dorm were outdated and faded. I was done feeling self-conscious at wedding receptions.
Even two decades later, I can still picture that stunning emerald green dress, with its delicate lace trim. The silky fabric felt cool against my sun-kissed skin, making me feel glamorous. It hugged my youthful curves perfectly, reminding me of my beauty no matter what life threw my way.
For the next several years, I wore that dress to what felt like a million weddings—friends from high school, college pals, and even neighbors. I styled it for every season, adding scarves, jewelry, and shoes I borrowed or found on sale. Those years were filled with fun—crafting ribbon bouquets, nibbling on bite-sized appetizers, and dancing to old-school hits. Late-night confessions to my best friend often included me feeling like a kid in grown-up clothes, juggling work meetings with weekend wedding festivities.
After my own wedding, I moved the green dress from my cozy one-bedroom apartment with my dog to my husband’s condo. I wore it a few times as a newlywed, grateful I no longer had to catch the bouquet. The following year, I proudly hung it in our bright, spacious walk-in closet in our new three-bedroom home. Life felt wonderful.
Then came the kids. Time flew by in a blur of baby showers and sleepless nights. The green dress faded into the background, lost among maternity wear and nursing tops. I never bothered to buy a special outfit for baby showers; my body was constantly changing, and the thought of spending money on something destined for spit-up and mess seemed pointless.
As the babies grew into spirited kids, the green dress made its way into the donation pile during a closet cleanup one spring evening. I tried to convince myself it was just a dress as I tossed it in with other fashion missteps. I knew I would never fit into it again, and I was okay with that. Still, it saddened me to acknowledge it no longer fit my life. My husband took the bag to the women’s shelter because I couldn’t bear to do it myself.
Funerals arrived quietly, lacking the grandeur of weddings and newborn celebrations. I attended a friend’s mother’s service, sitting quietly in the back, realizing one day I might find myself in my friend’s position. I watched my husband’s lifelong friend walk behind his mother’s casket, cradling his young son. We gathered at my house to celebrate my father-in-law’s life, dining on his favorite dishes after his sudden passing. These losses were profound, reshaping my life. Amid homework help and soccer practices, I stopped searching for an adult to guide me and found my own voice.
One evening, while engaging in a glass of red wine after a day of shuttling my kids around, a navy blue dress caught my eye in a glossy catalog. I had once scoffed at that store as a place for “old ladies,” but I found myself increasingly drawn to its timeless styles. The dress was beautifully made, flattering for my now middle-aged body—perfectly cut enough to feel youthful without being inappropriate.
“That’s a perfect funeral dress,” I thought, and then questioned if it was morbid to buy one. After a mental debate, I faced the reality: I would keep losing loved ones until my own funeral day. I was tired of scrambling for appropriate attire from my colorful wardrobe while managing travel plans and casseroles. While no outfit could erase grief, I knew from experience that the right attire could help me muster the strength to face tough times.
The dress was $112—a steal, really. And it wasn’t black; I had realized that black only made me look more exhausted. Navy was a color I could embrace. It arrived a few days later in a plain gray package, and I hid it behind my kids’ gear in the closet to try on privately.
That night, with the house quiet, I slipped it over my head. To my surprise, I liked the reflection staring back at me—a rare moment of self-acceptance. The dress was comfortable, and it made me feel beautiful, reflecting how I felt inside.
As I hung it carefully in my walk-in closet, I resisted picturing the future events it would accompany me to. Instead, I silently wished it would be a long time before I had to wear it again. I closed the closet door softly and headed to bed.
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Summary
This heartfelt narrative takes us through the journey of a woman who purchases a striking green dress for countless weddings, only to find herself later donating it as life evolves with children and loss. It highlights the significance of clothing in marking life stages and the bittersweet nature of change. The story concludes with a new blue dress symbolizing acceptance and resilience amid grief.