THE DRESS

Ann Murray Paige

5/13/10

When I was searching for the perfect dress to wear to my film premiere it was no easy feat. It’s not that I couldn’t find plenty of lovely places to shop or fine clothing to wear; it’s that none of those clothes looked right on my figure anymore because 2 years earlier I had lost both of my breasts to cancer. Now I had no bosom, and having chosen not to reconstruct it I really needed to pick my fashion carefully. If I didn’t, I could end up looking less like a pretty wife and mother of two and more like a pre-teen boy ready for little league try outs.

My journey with breast cancer is the subject of a documentary film called The Breast Cancer Diaries and in 2006 it was about to have its premiere at The Richmond Museum of Science in Richmond, Virginia at the IMAX theatre in front of 200 people. I wanted to wear an outfit that would make me look and feel pretty, sexy, and strong--like the courageous person I was hoping I was. It had only been a few years since my diagnosis and I was still getting used to being a cancer “survivor.” Of course, not having died of anything else yet, I was clinging to the hope that I was truly a survivor of breast cancer--but only time would be able to tell.

In the meantime, I had little time left--just a few weeks--until I flew to Virginia for the film screening and following gala in the ballroom outside the IMAX theatre. I had been through countless magazines, shopped store front windows, and combed the closets of family and friends desperately searching for “the” outfit. As the days flew by, I got nervous that I’d be in sweatpants and a t-shirt if I didn’t find something beautiful for my body--fast.

And then one summer day as I walked through my downtown’s main street, a sparkle of fabric wrapped around the shoulder of a store front mannequin caught my eye. I went closer and gazed through the glass at the most gorgeous navy blue taffeta dress I had ever seen. It was cut just below the knee, wrapped closely at the hips, with an elegant drape across the chest. I looked up and down but could not find any straps--and yet it was so beautiful and fairytale-like I made myself question the impossible. Could a breast-less woman pull off this strapless beauty of a dress?


I went inside to see the dress from the opposite side. It had a beautiful covered zipper straight up the back and a handsome, veil-like wrap to cover the naked shoulders of the wearer of this dress. Would that be me? I turned to see the shopkeeper standing behind me, beaming. Would I like to try on this dress? She was certain I’d be gorgeous in it.


I went into the dressing room and put it over my head. I didn’t need to unzip it because it slipped right over my scarred chest. I looked at the profile of my reflection in the mirror and saw the place where my breasts should be. For once, that sad area that cancer had robbed felt alive. Wrapped in blue sparkles and shimmering from a swath of fabric, my chest felt like it was getting something back, if only temporarily. But short lived or not, this feeling was something I’d missed dearly; I felt beautiful. I bought the dress.

And then the shopkeeper and I worked together to pull and tuck the top across my breast bone so that there would be no puckering, no pouching, no where-are-that-woman’s-breasts? When she was done, the dress looked like it was made for me and unless you’d watched my film or knew me personally you’d have never known I had no cleavage.

A few weeks later I walked down a pink carpet, passing photographers snapping pictures and was ushered into a front row seat to await the opening of my film. Encased in the stunning outfit that I’d first seen in that main street shop window a few weeks earlier, I was the belle of the breast cancer ball. I felt happy and healthy and pretty and beautiful and I smiled knowing that beneath this gorgeous piece of fashion was a fighter; a woman who was down once but was definitely not out. In fact, she was so “in” this night that she was beaming; bathed in blue, sparkling like glitter, and pulling off a fashion statement that three weeks ago she would have thought impossible to do.

And it was all thanks to the dress.

Zap Me, Power Dress!

By Malisa Yang


It has always occurred to me that there was a spark missing from my life. Ever since I was a child, I always failed miserably in every venture I embarked on. In  my third grade Talent Show, I forgot half the dance moves a group of friends and I made up for Britney Spears' song, 'Baby One More Time'. In fourth grade, I started gymnastics, but after a month, I knocked out one of my baby teeth while I was tumbling. In fifth grade, I was in the school play, The Nutcracker, and I got stage fright during my shining moment. In sixth grade, I was in a tether-ball tournament, and in front of all my entire school, the tether-ball smacked me in the face, which was humiliating.   In ninth grade, I tried out for the soccer team, and when I kicked the soccer ball, it went in the opposite direction of where I was aiming. In tenth grade, I tried out for the soccer team again, and this time, I shot the winning goal into the wrong goalpost, ensuring the other team's victory. In eleventh grade, I built a catapult for a local contest, and out of the twenty people who participated, my catapult was placed at twentieth place.
    So all that I endeavored went astray, but everything changed when I bought this gorgeous dress. It really accentuates my waist, and makes my legs look slimmer. It gave me confidence, which really improved my outlook on life, and gave me the courage to keep on trying. Of course, it didn't magically give me David Beckham skills in the field of soccer, but my skills improved because I gave in more hours of practice. My grades in school improved dramatically because I started speaking up in class. Previously, I always shied away from asking questions in class, or answering questions in class, because I always feared I would say something embarrassing.
    The real clincher on how this dress added magic to my life, is that I was wearing this dress when I won fourth place in a speaking contest. This was the closest to winning I have ever been, and it was incredible. Even though I didn't win, I had successfully spoken confidently in front of an entire room full of people, without forgetting any words from my speech. My dress has been my saving grace, as it gave me confidence, which was the spark I needed to truly live my life joyfully.

I will never part with...

By Kathryn Grimes


After having worked as a Fashion Consultant for a major clothing store, and having had a lifelong love affair with clothes, I read your article on writing  a short story about a item of clothing that falls into the “I will never part with this” category, with interest. I know I am not a writer, but I immediately thought of the one item I own that I could never part with. 


Trivial as they seem and probably not considered at all when writing about your attachment to something you wear, my love is for a pair of socks. These are special socks!  This particular pair are black, thick (thicker than any I have ever owned), and warm.
My daughter and I both suffered from terribly cold feet (probably more circulation than weather related).  We were always looking for the perfect pair of socks, some we purchased were overly expensive and others just so cute you could not resist and you had to wear them over another pair for any relief from the cold.  These black socks however work magic, they were my daughters, and now they are mine. 
Some nights when the air is frigid and my feet like ice cubes, I go to my “house socks” drawer and though many pair are there, I reach for the black ones.  The fabric content must contain wool, for they are perfectly toasty and immediately make me feel comfy and warm.  They affect my whole well being, like slipping on a down robe over my body.  It is the socks? I can’t find another pair, anywhere!!! I look, constantly, in Department Stores, Specialty Shops, on line.  I can’t find them because I don’t really know what I am looking for, there is no label.  When I shop I need to touch and feel, and nothing feels like these. I have to ask myself is it because their thick and warm, and make me feel wonderful, or is it because they were my daughters?  Is it because of all the things she left me when she died two years ago, something I knew we had searched for together trying to find the perfect pair, that this was a quest we had shared. It was something we talked about and laughed about. It was our ” funny conversation” when she was so ill that nothing seemed funny and her smallest chuckles were music to my ears? Or, is it because when I am cold and put them on, a part of her is with me again? I imagine it is all of the above.


I just know that out of closets full of beautiful clothes, my favorite thing comes down to just a pair of socks. Her socks, now my socks, always our socks.

Ode to the wrap pants

By Kimberly Anger


Once you grab a hold of the truly great fashion statement, you are reluctant to give it up.  If my 1974 wrap-style pants could talk they would have more than a few stories to tell.  They have accompanied me on 6 trips to Hawaii and 3 to Mexico.  They are my go-to vacation party pants.  Their diaper-type styling allows room to grow and keeps me in them through my menopausal weight gains.  As the original owner, I recall when the fabric was stiff and new.  The colors were bright and vivid and went with my entire wardrobe of tank tops.  Also the fact that you could flash a lengthly bit of leg made them sexy and eye-catching.  The trick to tying them was to make sure the final knot ended up in the front.  This prevented some party pranksters from untying the back knot and exposing your bare behind to the world.  But after a few drinks, that possibility seemed less and less intimidating.

Now the pants are soft with muted colors.  I love to tie them at the ankles and put on a pretty pair of sandals.  I have seen this same style surface 3 times since the 70's.  I never let them go.  When I wear them, I am 18 again with long tanned legs.  They actually make me feel good about where I have been and where I am now:  whether its on an island or in the backyard.

Zebra Suit

Zebra Suit


By Robin Kozloff

I call it my zebra suit because that’s what it is: a black and cream, zebra-striped, long-sleeved, loose-fitting, jumpsuit out of heavy soft cotton jersey, like a little kid’s sleeper without the feet. The stripes are not evenly spaced but are varied in width and jagged-edged just like a zebra’s. It has black buttons down the front, a tidy black collar at the neck and solid black cuffs at the wrists. My eagle eyes spied it from barely inside the door of the thrift store as it hung unaware among the pale flannels and terrycloths of the lingerie rack. I crouched, sprang, and pounced. It was a sixty-second kill. I trotted home with it in my teeth, gloating and triumphant. 

When I wear it belted, the top half blouses out but the bottom half gathers in sleekly, leaving my haunches long and lean. Without a belt, it’s a baggy, shapeless, comfy retreat.
I wear it to amuse my nephew at Thanksgiving family reunions when everyone stays over, sleeping on couches and air mattresses. I wear it to read the paper on cold, gray Sunday mornings when I can’t bear to get dressed in real clothes. I wore it once for Halloween with a black stocking for a tail and a mask made from a paper plate. And I wore it the night of our mother’s first surgery, when we all just waited at her house, and my brother found me hiding, curled face down on the bed. He sat down next to me patting my back and the kindness made me cry. I wore it rollerblading one fine, clear midnight, on a smooth dark road under a starry sky, swinging my arms, humming along, until some jackass grabbed my butt from a passing car window, nearly making me fall and filling me with a spitting, useless rage as the red tail lights faded into the distance.
Thinking it silly looking and sexless, I once put it on to discourage the advances of an overnight visitor, but before the night was over I shed my zebra skin.

Plaid Jacket

By Mary Lynn Fisher

In 1972, I made this plaid jacket at the age of 20 years old.  I still treasure it to this day because I was so proud of it.  Why?  Because my Mom taught me to "match the plaid" and as anyone who has tried it can tell you, it isn't easy to do.  And then I also made the buttonholes with only a zig-zag stitch on a $69 Singer sewing machine that my boyfriend bought me for Christmas.  The only thing is, since it was going on sale after the holidays, he actually gave me a box of Almond Roca for a Christmas gift and I thought it was all over between us! 

I don't know what became of the skirt I made to go with the jacket.  It was a gored style with no waistband in the same type of fabric in the heather lavender.

It was very timely when I read about your contest.  My Mom passed away in January this year and I had just run across the jacket in going through some old memorabilia.  I can still see and hear her instructing me on matching that plaid but she never took over.  Quite frankly, that wasn't like my Mom to stand back.  Like everything else, the jacket wouldn't be the same and I wouldn't be the same person without a Mom who cared enough to spend her time passing along her knowledge and still giving me the ability to take that pride and say "I did it myself."

Island Friend

By Susan Lee


I have never been one to pay much attention to my attire outside of what is necessary for
business or occasion, but fashion is perhaps deeper than on the surface. It is a sign of our
times and something whose meaning is formed in one’s sub-consciousness from an early
age. Being first generation, my parents had different thoughts about what was important.
Going through grammar school, clothes was merely functional and changed only if they
needed washing, so I was constantly wavering between fitting in and making do. From
my formative years, I never quite developed any fashion sense, or perhaps even fashion
common-sense, until the following experience.
I arrived in Sacramento via a job transfer from Texas armed with (1) clothes for work and
(2) an assortment of t-shirts, shorts, and jeans for casual wear. Around this time I
befriended a family of Polynesians – a tight knit laid back bunch. Having never been to
Hawaii, I was immediately attracted to what was exotic – from taro to pigeon English. I
was particularly close to Pua, who was closest to my age. She was a little thing and
relative to me, on the other end of the fashion scale, piecing together a stylish and unique
statement.
In this part of the story enters a faded round-neck lime green t-shirt. It was from REI and
had little tribal figures printed across the chest. It was soft, comfortable, and in the deep
recesses of my mind, very Islander. I was set! We passed the months together and my
impressionable self was starting to speak Pigeon.
One weekend in the early summer, Pua and I went shopping at the Galleria. I needed new
tops and she graciously offered to help me. We perused the usual stores trying on
different things but I didn’t end up buying anything. Near the end part of our journey we
arrived at a sporting good store to look for bathing suits. I was in my comfort zone at a
rack of summer sale t-shirts. I happily flipped through the hangers finding t-shirts with
palm tree prints, surfing logos. I sallied forth to the fitting room. When I decided on the
one I wanted I stepped out to show Pua.
In history, patience and silence has won battles. Pua did not say anything but she had a
look of concern in her eyes that teetered close to horror.
“NO,” she finally concluded.
“What – what’s wrong with it?” I questioned pressing my face downward to inspect my
newly donned light green t-shirt.
Silence…
“You need to pick another color,” she finally replied.
“What’s wrong with the color, Pua?” I whined, “I look good in this color, the shirt I had
on earlier is…”
And then it dawned on me.
“You don’t like my t-shirt?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” she started slowly, “It’s just that…you wear it…a lot.”
A light bulb went off on in my head. Once or twice a week I would do my laundry and in
would go my lime green t-shirt. One or twice a week Pua and I would meet up for
dinner, hanging out, or a movie and coincidentally, out would come my lime green tshirt.
This had been going on for many months.
I was embarrassed and a little hurt.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Sue-babes (this was my islander nick-name), I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“But that’s my favorite t-shirt,” I explained,
“I KNOW,” she retorted.
And then, I started laughing. I buckled over in that store and laughed until I was crying. I
could not believe her restraint. I could not believe she had gone out with me in public
night after night enduring my green t-shirt. Little by little her story came out. She would
come to pick me up or vice versa and every time she would be silently thinking, “Oh
man, please don’t let sue-babes be wearing that t-shirt.”
Pua joined in my laughing. We would stop for a minute, sigh, and then bust up laughing
again. It turned out my beloved t-shirt was far from Polynesian. The little tribal figures
were Kokopelli, from the Southwest. Not that it mattered as my t-shirt had worn out its
welcome long ago. The t-shirt lived out its days as sleepwear, but long after its life had
ended, it has stayed with me as an endless source of giggling. I was lucky to find a friend
who could see past my one t-shirt and still love and accept me, all the while patiently
opening me to try something new. Of course, I still have made many mistakes, such as
my pique polo era, but that is a different story.

Kentucky Derby

Stephanie is watching the Kentucky Derby today decked out in a Wardrobe outfit. She is looking stylish in Nataya dress, Sue Wong coat and Toucan hat. Hope her horse wins!