Unfit

Long, long ago, when I was in high school, like most girls, I went with friends to look at prom dresses at the local JCPenny. The difference was that we went exclusively to mock them rather than to buy them.

One dress in particular boggled the mind. It had a dark blue denim bodice, strapless, with a sort of internal-wire effect that would hold it on/up, instead of the usual elastic-at-the-top approach. The skirt appeared to be no fewer than four different layers, of volume-enhancing under-tulle, a silver metallic fabric, and what I believe was blue tulle, and black tulle, on top. (If I can ever find a picture of it, I'll post it here.) The effect was astounding. It looked like exactly the wrong dress--like the kind of dress a cheerleader might have a dream about wearing to prom, then wake up screaming. We called it the Nightmare dress.

The Nightmare dress became a sort of icon. Over the next few weeks, we visited it each time we went to the mall (and what else was there there to do?): we talked about it, anticipated seeing it, searched for it, touched it and laughed at it. We made the pilgrimage probably three times before someone (let's face it; it was probably me) suggested that we try it on. It was a smallish-middle size, and we were one very tall, one very skinny, and one relatively average (that's me, again) sized girl. Still, we decided that all of us should try it on, whatever difficulties it might entail...like the teen-girl equivalent of "blood brothers."

So we did. It didn't fit any of us perfectly, but somehow it worked. In fact, it looked great-but-different on each of us, accentuating the various attributes that one might be pleased to accentuate and minimizing those that one would not. It was, actually, perfect.

(Except that it was something like $180, and despite its perfection, we were there to mock the prom, not to join in.)

This is the most simple-to-illustrate instance of my compatibility-related blindness. I have always had a disappointing inability to choose clothes/accessories that "work" for me. I have an aggravating tendency to want to write tragedy--which in my hands becomes as maudlin and depressing (on so, so many levels) as your typical goth high schooler's chapbook--rather than comedy, which I'm actually pretty good at. I try to think of grand, long-lasting ways that I could contribute to society through years of toil, like writing the great American novel, or pioneering a new art form, or proving the grand unification theory or solving the four colors problem, or at least inventing the internet. But none of these ideas are original, and I'm not very good at them.

(I know, I know--you're thinking "Besides, why write the great American novel when, if you include all the British novels, it would still only be like ten billionth greatest overall?" To that I can only say: Touche, my friend. Touche.)

So I'm trying some different things: seeking out reds and browns and square necklines; letting go of the tendency to strip every character of all hope when I want to write something "serious"; and checking out the newspaper business. (Because if anything is both practical and ephemeral--stymieing grandiosity and longevity in one fell swoop--it's the newspaper.)


Take that, Alicia's beliefs.