Little Black Dress

As soon as I saw you, I knew I had to have you. Your chamois soft silkiness and audaciously jewelled waistband declared “Buy me,” as emphatically as if you’d breathed the words into my ear. Still, I doubted you. You were so very small; your fabric whisper thin and delicate and desperately unforgiving.

So small. Much too small for the likes of me.

In a moment of daring I took you into the changing room, and there in that tight and tense space, with 360 degrees of disapproval, I slipped you on. The zip went up with ease and oh! What a feeling! And how amazing do I look! How glamorous. How sexy.

How thin. 

Your silky material was the most perfectly tactile canvas for me to run my fingers over and feel the sharp edges of my hip bones and the subtle hollow of my abdomen. I placed my hand over it, experiencing the familiar power known to every woman like me; the sensation that says “you are empty. And this is good.”

You came home with me, the best and Littlest Black Dress I’ve ever owned. Wearing you I was an absolute goddess, all eyes on me, inebriated with the illusion of that kind of power and doomed to keep my hip bones sharp and my belly hollow.

But a new baby put a stop to all of that, and you and I parted ways, Little Black Dress. You retired to the back of my wardrobe where the small and reproachful clothes live, and there you stayed, never to be worn again. Every now and then, whilst searching for a particular item, I’d catch a glimpse of you hanging there, still so gorgeously silky and captivating, but no longer full of glamorous promise. Instead, merely a sad reminder of what used to be and a cause of judgement and a bitter, queasy feeling of regret in my rounded belly. No longer hollow. No longer empty. No longer thin enough for you, Little Black Dress.

For 11 years you hung there, until one day I couldn’t bear the sight of you any longer. Couldn’t stand the silent condemnation every time I accidentally saw you and found myself mocked by the infinitesimal amount of fabric that comprises you. You, hanging there with that tiny number on your label, regarding all the jersey, stretchy clothes hanging beside you with silent scorn. You’re not worthy enough to wear me, you insidiously whispered.

I snatched you from the hanger and crammed you into the back of a drawer and there you stayed for another year, until one day I suddenly thought about you. Remembered how glamorous and how beautiful I felt when I wore you. What a goddess I was. So I took you out of the drawer and laid you out on my bed.

You didn't look quite so superior anymore, all screwed up and covered with creases. Why did I ever let you define me? Why did I allow you, a mere dress, and all the other tiny, judgey clothing, to be a yard-stick of my self-worth? You were just a flimsy piece of fabric that I had to starve and punish myself for. If only I’d known that I was worthy enough without you; a goddess with or without jutting hip bones and a concave abdomen; amazing no matter how big the number on the label, because I’m so much more than a woman in a Little Black Dress.

I put you in a carrier bag and sent you to the charity shop. And when you were finally out of my life and I was free of you, I took myself off to the shops and I bought a bigger dress.