Yesterday I attempted to buy a dress. "Attempted" is the key word. By the time I got home after 10, all I had to show for my evening was a dark-chocolate impulse buy, some leaky Diet Coke, a bunch of red grapes and a stomach full of Swiss Chalet. No frock for me.
Because I have a pop-cultured-packed brain, every dress I tried on conjured up a traumatic Tinseltown reference.
First I looked like a Real Housewife of the O.C. Yes, like a well-Botoxed middle-aged woman trying too hard. I hate to use the word "cougar," but....
Then I looked like Goldie Hawn. The geriatric-hippie version.
Then I channeled my inner June Cleaver. I would have purchased that dress if the crinoline were even. But it wasn't. And June would not approve. (And when and where would I actually wear a dress with crinoline?)
Then I looked like a head of lettuce. Which isn't a pop-culture reference, just a fact.
So I decided to stick with the dress I own. I'm going out to celebrate a dear friend's birthday tomorrow, and I'm quite certain there's no rule against wearing something non-new.
The birthday gal also walked away empty-handed. But she almost bought a green dress. Very Joan of Mad Men. VERY. But she doesn't watch Mad Men. So the whole point of this dress-shopping blog entry is to have an excuse to post a picture of Christina Hendricks in her vibrant green curve-enhancing number.
It's a good thing she didn't buy it. Boys' brains would explode.