Randy's Version of Project Runway

Okay, by my watch, I just spent one hour and forty-five minutes trying on everything in my closet. Why, you ask? It's kind of a long story....you may wanna pause to get a snack or somethin'.

So this weekend's the big family wedding. Which means tomorrow is the rehearsal dinner. Now, it's not like I left it all to the last minute--I even went (gasp) shopping!--but I thought I had back-ups. Multiple back-ups, in fact. So when I didn't find anything at the mall, I...well, I guess I rested on my laurels.

Big mistake.

See, the solution to the algorithm by which I must solve the apparel dilemma is constrained by my possession of (sorry to get personal but--oh hell, why not?) a certain amount of cleavage.

Turns out I've been forbidden to exhibit it around the parental units.

So I thought the gold cocktail dress was a safe bet. Sure it's strapless, but the bodice covers enough to protect even the Pope's sensibilities. Just to make certain though, I tried it on this evening. Well. There must be something about the color gold--it was like a big ol' spotlight shone on, er, things, making them look a whole lot more prominent than they really are. (Trust me, this is somewhat new--'cuz along with menopause came mutant boobs--yeah, I haven't seen it discussed in the literature, either).

Picture Jayne Mansfield in her prime (which would be before that car accident that decapitated her). Needless to say, the gold frock went to the back of the closet.

No problem, I thought. Didn't I say I had multiple back-ups? Next came the black sparkly strapless. Only, seen through the eyes of the parental units, it suddenly looked slutty. Ditto the next black strapless. And the next.

Started to get panicky at this point. And to wonder why I own so many black strapless dresses.

Let's try another color, I decided. A lovely shade of emerald green and although halter-style, a very demure version. Only one problem. No shoes to go with it. I must have spent twenty minutes on this one alone.

Hot and sweaty now, I resorted to clothes I haven't worn since I was thin-ner. Hm. Close, but no cigar. Besides, more cleavage, no shoes, yada, yada, yada...

At this point, I envisioned myself dragging all the options over to my parents' house and letting them choose. I even toyed with dressing up something I normally wear to work (ugh!).

Finally, I resorted to two plain black sheaths--hand-me-downs from my sister-in-law who (the bitch) grew out of them in the good way (meaning she got too skinny for them). Let me tell you why neither was an appealing option: although I may be conservative in a lot of ways, dress just isn't one of 'em.

Sigh. But, I was in a desperate situation, so I tried them on.

The first one didn't fit right. The second was better, but oh-so-boring. I looked around for something--anything!--to jazz it up.

And there it was.

This cool thing I can't even describe (I'll try in a minute) that's been hanging in my closet for years, waiting for the moment I'd figure out what the hell to do with it. I sloughed it on over my shoulders, and voila. Problem solved. (Okay, here goes: it's all beads but strung together kinda like a spider web, and sewn together to form the shape of a jacket. Screw it; I'll have to get a picture of it tomorrow night.)

So, you may be wondering why a 53-year-old woman couldn't pick her favorite cocktail dress from the line-up--boobs and parents be damned? Hey, they're 83 years old (the parents, not the boobs--although they're gettin' there). At that age, there's not a whole lot a daughter can do to make Annie and Daddy happy and proud.

I'm just glad they're still around to cause problems.