PLEASE PRESS PLAY AND ENJOY.
No copyright infringement intended. Just appreciation of beautiful lyrics and music to set a mood to my mood.
Let's talk about love. Not love LOVE, but LOVE love. I love dresses. Some might say I have an obsession. There I said it: I LOVE dresses. Give me a dress over a poopy stinkin' boy any day.
I'm just saying.
A dress can't radiate a million mixed everything's with one perfect simple smile inducing smile.
"Freakin' smiles, and stinkin' boys."
So, dresses, and love. Let's have a discussion on dresses AND love, in particular the history of seven of my most romantically linked dresses from my first kiss to the (TWO) most significant heart wrenching hugs of my existence, without revealing too TOO much, that is.
SO, here goes.
DRESS NUMBER 1:
My first kiss happened during my grade 10 semi formal. I know, late, as far as first kisses go. It was December. Snow was probably everywhere. And, I was three months shy of turning "sweet" 16. The days before I became too cool for school, BUT went anyway. The dress was ugly. Too ugly.
I probably thought it was the best thing since those white penny loafers I had bought (and wore) after labour day. The dress, a blue dress, wherever she may be, with all those memories of 'Lady in Red' by Chris De Burg; friends egging a boy to "kiss her", not realizing it was HER first; may you rest in ugly bubble skirted peace.
DRESS NUMBER 2 actually ended up off at the end of the night. Head out the gutters please. Then, I'm sure that was what the teenage boy who convinced me to take it off had hoped the outcome would be when he suggested that tent camping in a dress (with tights and flats) on a blustery January night was probably not an ideal situation and that in order to stay warm I needed body heat. His in particular. I was cold and drunk AND complied. Probably too easily. I wrote a little story about that night. An ode to my 18 year old self, and a black dress WHOM I almost shared another first of firsts with. ((((Insert heads in gutters here))))
Little did she know.
Her 18 year old self.
At about the weight of a feather, without the feathers.
Could get so.
Out of her head.
In her defense.
She did eat an orange that day.
Adult her cringes at the very thought.
And, she was told to pace herself by the boy she imagined she would never NOT imagine. She never did thank him for that. The care. And thought. Of it. Him.
That he did.
So, although he is no longer imagined to the point of never imagining another and definitely NOT reading this.
As she vomited. And he held her hair back. And she probably told him she would love him like no other. She did.
So very unimaginably much it hurt her to the soul.
She still has yet to pace herself.
Matters of the heart.
She should thank him for that.
DRESS NUMBER 3
My "first kiss" that meant something more than simply having a "first" kiss. It was a vintage dress. Black with white flowers, probably from the 70's, paired with a black cardigan and a pair of black 10 hole Doc Martens. Everything was GENERALLY black then. But, in a good way. My hair. My clothes. My mood. BUT. And. He made everything bearable. Sort of. If we could have ever figured out what bearable was AND (certainly) if we had ever figured out what WE even meant in the scheme of early adult barely bareable woes. Again, dress now gone. Him, still fully supportive of my highs and lows; confusion and defeat; love and (sometimes) happiness.
DRESS NUMBER 4:
That guy that made me believe I was capable of feeling whatever I thought I was incapable of feeling. We met over a library card catalogue (ironically since I am now a Librarian). It was the (fall of) second year at Art School, and the vintage black eyelet dress was once again paired with a black cardigan. I was wearing flats, I think. Probably black. I really haven't changed my style since I was 17 years old. Some say rut. I say: Don't mess with a fantastically fashionable creature. ;) I still have that dress somewhere. As for the boy, I still think he's the best thing that never happened to me. Even if, to quote him on why we could no longer be, "Shit happens".
DRESS NUMBER 5:
We met in an empty hallway. The "boy" not me and the dress. He smiled. Said Hi. I smiled, and said "Hey" back. I will not tell a lie when I say that time literally felt like it both stopped and sped up with that HEY. Breath was still. Quieted by the pounding of a organ that wouldn't shut its fck'n encessent ticking time bomb the eff up. Hearts that only know what stupid brains tell them they think they want to know--and feel. Hearts. (Shakes head from side to side)
I kid you not. I knew. Like knew KNEW. If I actaully believed I knew what I knew BUT didn't because I don't. Then I might be lying AND I know everything and nothing BUT something, as the case may be. But that Hi. That hey. That was something. For me anyway. The dress was whatever. I may have been wearing a potato sack OR fashionable flannel PJ's. Bah...ok, it was the colour of baby poop; a sun dress in fall; the usual black tights and cardigan. My army green jacket WHICH I still have (and WEAR!) is still cool as all fxxk, and should be the star of this story.
Then, I'm not saying anymore cause dress 6, that's the dress that was the end of dress 5.
DRESS NUMBER 6:
Saying goodbye is never easy, right?! I was wearing a dress I picked out especially for a goodbye, in anticipation of that goodbye. It was pretty. Vintage in style. White-ish with pretty coloured flowers, and I don't generally wear white. EVER. The dress was very spring-like, for an early summer day. Let me start by saying, I actually hate this dress AND I will explain at the climax of this story. It was maybe a size too small, but the size above was a size too large AND I really did want to love this dress because it was super feminine and would have made me feel so pretty if I had done its job right and fit where it was supposed to fit. However, I digress. Goodbyes.
I didn't want to ever NOT say hello to this person EVER again and here I was saying the very opposite. Then, of course, unrequited like is the hardest. So, to this week's post I say goodbye with this anecdotal message:
When hugging a "boy" wearing a dress a size too small be prepared to always remember a moment, a DEFINING moment, in a dress that you are sure he will always remember as a defining dress that (most definitely) gave you rocket boobs. 'Cause I'm sure he felt those mother fck'n pointed fxxcks shielding the beat of a whacky out of control heart and knew KNEW you would never forget that stupid dress.
P.S. I had to throw in Dress Number 7, because I met the biggest creative inspiration AND my BIGGEST crush since River Phoenix days, wearing a black vintage inspired skater dress with yellow daisies. I met Gerard Way twice. Once in New York. It was fall. The other time in Toronto. Spring. Meeting him in New York went fantastically well. He was polite. Sweet. As I approached him he cute-ly asked me if I could wait while he grabbed another sharpie for signing whatever I had for him to sign. I only had my concert ticket. I told him I had come all the way from Canada with my thirteen year old daughter (whom he had just met right before me). I'm not sure how we hugged. It was super cute because it felt like he thought I didn't really want a hug--that I was simply there with my daughter. I may have left my heart in New York that day. Have I told you I love LOVE Gerard Way?
Eww to Dress Number 1: